


Rumpelstiltskin

by xzombiexkittenx



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: Canon levels of violence, Dubious Science, Extremely Dubious Consent, Insanity, M/M, fear toxin, grey morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-25
Updated: 2005-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne finds Jonathan Crane and makes the mistake of taking him home. Things don't get any better when Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn roll up into town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finders Keepers

It doesn’t matter where in the world that you go; Chicago, London, Metropolis, New York, Stockholm, or even Gotham, all subways (or overways in the case of Chicago and Gotham) are exactly the same underneath the superficial differences. The same underlying odor of urine and sweat. Stale air recirculating and the old, tired smell of whatever fabric it is that happens to be left clinging to the seats. Graffiti lining the insides of the tunnels, or the cars of the train, or in Gotham’s case, the little bits of overway that arch over the track. The bored, blank expressions of the nighttime passengers were reflected back through the dark windows, obscuring Gotham as the train rattled along, sending its passengers swaying in their seats.

Bruce, incognito in battered jeans, threadbare coat and baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, slouched in his seat, watching the other passengers’ reflections. None of them were of much interest, tired working men and women, a couple of teenagers, one or two slightly dubious characters, and one man who seemed to be having a fit.

The man was huddled up on two of the seats; twitching and muttering to himself, face against his knees. He only had one arm through the sleeve of the dirty brown coat he was wearing; the rest of it was just bundled up around him. His shoes, that looked as though they had once been of good quality, were waterlogged and his longish hair was lank and filthy, hanging down into his eyes.

Bruce felt pity for him, but little more, until he caught word of what the man was saying; “Scarecrow,” between fearful ravings and mutterings. The pity was replaced with a sharp-edged guilt. Another man who had been poisoned and not discovered until too late. Even now Arkham was overflowing with those who hadn’t received the antidote in time. More still wandered the streets and though Fox was working on something to help these others, he was doubtful that such a cure existed. As the Scarecrow had said, there is only so much fear one mind can take before it snaps. The homeless man, now crying quietly to himself, seemed as though he had snapped quite thoroughly. 

“The Bat-man,” he muttered and the crying turned to giggling. “Scarecrows are for crows, not bats. Not possible to scare bats with a straw man.” He shuddered, digging grimy fingers into his hair. “It’s not real, it’s not real, Risperdal, methylene dioxymethamphetamine, pretty little G-proteins all scribbly, twisted, and sugar and spice and everything – Oh GOD! Don’t touch me.” 

The young man – and from what Bruce could see, he didn’t look to be more than twenty-five, but it was hard to tell – almost fell out of his seat, trying to get away from his own reflection and the guilt dug its needles right into Bruce’s heart and guts, twisting and pinching. He wondered briefly if he should try to get the young man to Arkham; at least there he could be sedated so he wouldn’t be a danger to himself or others.

“Not the Scarecrow, I am not…” Thin shoulders shuddered and twitched as though he wanted to straighten up, but couldn’t. “Jonathan Crane,” he whispered. “I am Jonathan Crane, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…”

Bruce didn’t like to believe in fate or destiny, but this was one hell of a lucky coincidence; his prey, vulnerable and alone, on the monorail of all places. The train jolted uncomfortably, tipping Crane off his seat into a dazed sprawl on the floor. He looked up through the dirty strands of hair, right at Bruce, and it was Crane for certain. How many men had eyes that color, after all? 

The once immaculate doctor had fallen a long way. His face was dirty as his clothing and covered in scratches and his lips were split and still seeping blood. The skin around his eyes looked bruised, it was so dark from fatigue, and his eyes were bloodshot and terrified. He looked like he’d lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose, and now his cheekbones seemed sharp as razors and the hollows underneath were the same bruise-dark as his eyes. His jaw and cheeks were sparsely covered in stubble, though he wasn’t the type of man who could grow much of a beard. Under the coat he was still wearing the straightjacket, still buckled on in places, and cloth that looked like it had once been a grayish white was now the same mud color as everything else Crane was wearing.

Crane looked down suddenly at his hand. Metal and glass stuck out of his fist and he curled up on the filthy floor of the monorail, sobbing again, picking at the shards cutting into his fingers. It took Bruce a moment to realize that Crane was clutching the remains of his glasses.

The train’s wheels hissed crossly as they reached the station. Bruce got to his feet, as if there was nothing wrong at all, grabbed Crane by the strap still buckled between his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, dragging him off the monorail, onto the platform.

Crane put up a fight, but it had been two weeks since the attack and he was obviously exhausted and in no condition to defend himself by a show of strength. Not, Bruce thought a trifle smugly, that Crane had ever put up much of a physical fight. He was a good head shorter than Bruce and most of his weight seemed to come from the waterlogged clothing he was wearing. It was disappointingly easy to catch Crane across the face with an open backhand, sending him sprawling again. Crane scrambled down the platform, on one hand and knees, holding his wounded hand to his chest, unwilling to let go of the ruins of his spectacles. 

Bruce took hold of the coat and Crane’s hair, glad that the only other person on this platform was walking quickly away. Holding Crane in place by his hair, Bruce stripped the coat off his arm and threw it aside. Crane writhed, twisting in his grip, eyes shut and mouth twisted so blood trickled slowly towards his chin from his split lips. Bruce let go in favor of seizing Crane’s wrists in his hands, yanking them behind his back to shove him to the ground, one well placed knee in the center of his spine held him down while Bruce wrestled the straps of the straight-jacket back into place. It trapped the broken glass and wire frames in the sleeve, probably worsening the damage to Crane’s hand, but he didn’t feel like fighting Crane for them at a public transport monorail station. Let the man have them; he didn’t care enough to concern himself with Crane’s cuts and bruises.

Oddly enough, the confines of the jacket seemed to calm Crane and he slumped down, panting and shaking, but otherwise docile. Bruce moved his knee, slowly, warily waiting for an escape attack that never came. He stood, bringing Crane with him. Crane stared at him, unblinking, and though his throat worked for a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the wideness of his eyes made it perfectly clear that what he was seeing, wasn’t what was actually there.

Crane flinched when Bruce took hold of his arm, but otherwise held his ground. He started up his litany again; “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…” 

It stuck Bruce that for Crane to have held onto that much of his mind after two weeks was the most impressive feat of mental willpower that he had ever seen. All the gas victims at Arkham were heavily sedated to prevent violence and suicide, or they were vegetables.

“Doctor Crane,” Bruce tried. “Doctor Crane, do you understand what I’m saying?”

Some tiny filament of the keen intelligence he’d once possessed sparked in Crane’s eyes. “Was a doctor,” he mumbled. “Was a professor, then a doctor, and now I’m crawling and crawling and he’s trying to get me –get away from me! You can’t have it, it’s mine and you’re not real, you’re not real…” For a moment Bruce thought that he’d misread Crane and the man was in fact entirely cracked, but then Crane squinted up at him and sneered with all the arrogance he could muster, a rather impressive amount if Bruce was any judge. “I’m a doctor, I’m a scarecrow; let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!” The sneer twisted into a crooked grin. “Well…mad maybe, but I can still understand English.”

Bruce tried not to look as stunned as he felt. If his own memory was anything like reliable, then Crane had just quoted King Lear, and then answered his question with sarcasm. He had originally intended to simply drop Crane off in front of the police station on his way home, but if the man was lucid…There had to be a reason why Crane still retained his faculties, and if he could be made to assist Fox then they might actually have a chance of curing the patients who still had minds left to be cured.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Alfred, could you send the car around? And bring a blanket to put down on the seats, we’ve got a visitor coming and he’s...” Filthy wasn’t really a good enough word to describe Crane’s pitiful state. “He’s not very clean.” 

“Picking up strays are we, Sir?”

“Something like that.” He was loathe to explain the situation over the phone so he simply told Alfred where he was and then proceeded to manhandle Crane down the stairs to wait for the car.

When Alfred got out of the car he managed to confine his expression to politely shocked, a wholly British mode of disapproval. “Master Bruce, when I asked if you were picking up strays, I assumed that you meant a dog.”

Bruce shrugged and glanced at the ground where Crane had huddled up, staring intently at one of the steps, whispering his, ‘it’s not real,’ to himself again. He seemed to have either forgotten that Bruce was there, or he was studiously ignoring him. Bruce reached into the backseat of the car and pulled the blanket off the seat. 

“He’s still partially lucid. I want to find out how and if we can use what he knows to help his victims.” Bruce knelt down next to Crane and wrapped the blanket around him.

Crane whimpered and his chant increased in speed and volume but he submitted without a fuss.

Alfred looked as though he would be raising his eyebrows if he weren’t so impeccably British. “I gather we’re not going to Arkham or the police then, sir.”

Bruce shook his head, standing, dragging Crane with him. “We can’t. Not if we want to find out...by any means necessary Alfred. He could save lives if I can get the information out of him. We’ll set up some sort of space in the cave or in the house

“He’ll know who you are, Master Bruce.”

“I know.” Bruce’s tone was resigned. “There’s no helping that.”

Alfred did arch his eyebrows then. “You don’t expect him to live, do you, sir?”

Bruce shook his head, bundling Crane into the backseat of the car. “Not really, Alfred, no.” he slid in next to Crane so he could keep a close eye (and hand if necessary) on him.

The problem was, that even with the best builders that money could buy; the Wayne Manor was no where near being finished. Bruce, Alfred, and the skeleton staff that he had been employing, were all living at the hotel until it was finished. This left him with few options of where he was going to keep Crane who, unbelievably, fell asleep on the way to the Manor. 

Bruce got the impression that Crane was so exhausted that he had just passed out. He took the opportunity to study his opponent as he had never had the chance to do so properly before. Crane looked older than he had initially guessed, closer to thirty than twenty. He looked troubled, even in his sleep, and Bruce found himself feeling sorry for Crane, of all things. Perhaps Henri – no, Ra’s – perhaps Ra’s had been right; perhaps it was a weakness. Crane had poisoned Rachel, he had tried to destroy Gotham… he was crying in his sleep. It is hard to hate someone you pity and, as Bruce wiped away a tear track and smudges of dirt and dried blood with the pad of his thumb, he couldn’t muster up the rage.

Bruce wondered what the Scarecrow had to fear and why it hadn’t broken him yet.


	2. Letting Go

Being Bruce Wayne had its advantages. Of course, Bruce knew that, but it meant that when he announced that he was going to live on site – and oh how it pained him to call his parent’s house ‘the site’ – it meant that no one raised an eyebrow. It also meant that when he placed a rush order on six mattresses, white sheets, industrial strength steel panels, and bullet-proof, shatter-proof glass, no one wondered why.

He left Alfred to await the arrivals of his caravan and the other orders, armed himself with the necessities of the job ahead of him, and then he and Crane – awake again and fighting him every step of the way – went into the Batcave. The fluttering of bats and the oppressive atmosphere of the cave did nothing to alleviate Crane’s symptoms. Held firmly by the arm and the back of his neck, Crane fought so hard that he actually managed to twist free, only to promptly trip over an irregularity in the floor and send himself sprawling. He went down hard, without the use of his arms to break his fall, and Bruce watched impassively as Crane struggled to regain the wind that he had knocked out of himself.

Bruce knelt down next to Crane and rolled him onto his back. “Doctor Crane,” he said slowly and calmly, removing his hat and jacket. “If you don’t calm down, I will sedate you. Do you understand me?”

Crane shut his eyes. “Say that again,” he whispered. Though he didn’t say anything else, his lips began to move in the now familiar pattern of ‘it’s not real’ again.

Intrigued, Bruce repeated himself. 

Crane started to laugh, a harsh, jagged sound. “Who, what, where, when, why?” He squirmed, but it seemed more like he was trying to ease the pressure on his straight-jacketed arms than an attempt to escape so Bruce let him alone. “I understand everything. Once you understand fear, you understand the world.”

“But are you going to remain calm?”

Crane opened his eyes, a slow upward sweep of lashes. “You answer my question first.”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. This was going to try his patience to the very ends of its limits, he could already tell, and that did not constitute a promising start. “Batman; I want to give you a bath and treat your wounds; in the Batcave; two weeks after the gas attack and I’m bathing you because you smell; you’re here because you’re going to help me find a cure.”

“Oh.” Crane’s eyes darted back and forth, tracking something that probably didn’t exist. “No, thank you.”

“It’s not an option,” Bruce said between clenched teeth. “It’s a choice of doing it voluntarily, or under sedation.” Crane was ignoring him, mouth moving silently, eyes squeezed shut again. There was probably a nicer way of doing things, but he was tired and Crane hadn’t exactly earned himself a great deal of consideration, so Bruce cracked him across the face with the back of his hand. “Pay attention,” he snapped.

Crane’s eyes shot open. “You’re not the Bat-Man,” he said accusingly, “just another bully, just another thug.” Then he shuddered, turning his face away. “Please leave me alone now.”

Bruce got to his feet, pushed Crane over onto his stomach with his foot, and hauled him mostly upright by the straps across his back. He dragged the doctor – Crane’s feet slipping and scuffing against the stone as he tried to get fully upright – through the waterfall and dropped him into the water where it deepened on the other side, wading out after him. The water was freezing. 

Crane came up sputtering, slipped, and went face down again. For one long moment, Bruce was tempted to just let him drown. Then he caught hold of the straight-jacket and lifted Crane up enough that he could breathe. His own jeans were now heavy and clinging uncomfortably, and the water wasn’t as clean as it might be, but now that he’d decided Crane was going to get clean, the devil himself would be hard-pressed to stop him.

“Going to kill me,” Crane panted through chattering teeth.

Bruce barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Well it would make a change,” he muttered, then dunked Crane again. He pulled the hotel shampoo Alfred had given him out of his pocket. “Shut your eyes.” He tipped the contents out over Crane’s head, not waiting to see if Crane was going to listen this time. The yelp of pain Crane made implied that the doctor hadn’t. 

He pushed Crane under again, scrubbing at Crane’s hair with his free hand until it felt like most of the filth and shampoo was out. It certainly looked cleaner, though Crane seemed a little the worse for wear, gasping desperately and thrashing about in an entirely futile gesture to free himself. Bruce dropped the little bottle, letting it float harmlessly away, and set about undoing the straight-jacket. When Crane’s squirming made it impossible, he grit his teeth and, for the third time in only a few hours, backhanded him.

“Hold still.” 

Out of some lingering sense of self-preservation, Crane did as he was told. Bruce wrenched the jacket off, tossing it onto the rocks. The asylum regulation white t-shirt, also now a dirty grey, went next, then the shoes, socks, trousers, and rather sad looking white briefs. Incredibly, Crane’s face was flushed, either with shame or anger; a sure sign of something other than the madness and fear. Bruce, now finding himself with nothing to hold onto, wrapped one arm around Crane’s waist, holding him against his body. Crane’s head lolled back on his neck, and he went almost entirely limp except for the shivering. Bruce pulled the little hospital soap out of his pocket and ripped the wrapper off with his teeth, then started scrubbing.

Crane, through chattering teeth and trembling lips was muttering to himself again. Bruce ignored him. Crane was in a sorry state, dirty and thin, bruises flowering in hues of yellow and purple on his arms and chest and his back was raw from the chafing of the jacket’s straps. His face was starting to show traces of bruising from where Bruce had hit him, and again, Bruce felt unaccountably guilty and sorry for the man. It didn’t sit well with him, so he dragged Crane back out of the water, setting him on his own two feet, shivering, body steaming in the cold air, toes curled against the cold, hard stone underfoot. He was still holding his glasses tightly in one hand.

If someone had told Bruce that this man had almost brought about the ruin of Gotham, he would have laughed. But he didn’t feel like laughing now; he felt slightly sick to his stomach. Crane’s thin shoulders were hunched miserably and he stared up at Bruce, eyes not quite focused. His stomach curved in under the balcony of ribs and his nakedness seemed needlessly cruel somehow.

“Master Wayne?” Alfred, always right on time, had appeared with a large towel, though God only knew where he’d got it from, and two sets of clean, dry clothing. “The caravan is here, as well as the steel, though the mattresses and glass will take a little longer.”

Bruce wrapped the towel around Crane’s shoulders and the doctor used his free hand to cling to it, holding it around himself. “That’s fine, Alfred. Could you get the straight-jacket washed? We’re going to need it.”

He maneuvered Crane over to the stone table where Rachel had lain, pushing him into a sitting position. “Let me see your hand.” Crane balked then, closing his fist tighter, until blood seeped out from between his fingers. “And some rubbing alcohol and bandages,” Bruce called to Alfred, catching Crane’s wrist in his hand. “Show me, or I’ll make you wish you had.” The threats felt tired and forced in his mouth, but Crane flinched. 

“Mine,” he whispered. “They’re mine; not yours, not the Scarecrow’s.”

Bruce sighed and tightened his grip. For the first time, Crane didn’t respond to physical violence. He whimpered, trying to pull his arm away, but he wouldn’t let go, so Bruce dug his fingers into the tendons of Crane’s wrist until he had no choice but to open his hand, a low moan of pain his only concession. The jagged remains of the glass and wire had done something of a number on Crane’s palm and fingers.

“They might be yours,” Bruce said calmly, as he began prying the bits and pieces out of Crane’s skin to a quiet symphony of whimpers and soft hissing breaths, “but they’re broken. Are they reading glasses or do you need them all the time?”

Crane shook his head, as though he didn’t understand the question. He was still shivering. Bruce wanted to shake him, wanted to hit him again, to demand why he was so lucid and so gone at the same time. Instead he let Crane’s hand fall and shoved one pile of clothing at him. “Get dressed.”

“I know you,” Crane said. He held the clothing awkwardly in place on his lap with the elbow of his bad arm, making no attempt to dry himself or put them on. He tipped his head to one side, and then a little self-depreciating half-smile crept onto his face. “I should have guessed.” 

He should have seen it almost two hours ago, and Bruce wasn’t sure if it was the drug or not having his glasses that was the problem. He suspected the drug.

Bruce took the clothing back. “Are you going to get dressed, or not?”

Crane stared down at himself, eyes clouding over for a moment, before he bared his teeth in a grimace, fingers tightening on the towel. “I like you better without the mask,” he said softly.

“And I’d like you better if you’d put some damn clothes on!” Bruce snapped. 

He took the towel from Crane and snatched the shirt off of the pile. He pulled it roughly over Crane’s head, forcing his arms through the sleeves. He felt like an idiot, dressing a grown man, his enemy, as though he was a child. The doctor just sat there, staring vacantly at the ceiling, even when Bruce made him stand so he could lift first one foot, then the other and pull up unused, birthday present boxer shorts that had been too small for him up Crane’s legs to settle, still overlarge, low on jutting hipbones. 

“Clonazepam,” Crane said suddenly. “Clonidine and Inderal. Reboxetine.”

Bruce groaned and rubbed his temples; he could feel a headache coming on and it wasn’t going to be small. “What?”

Crane blinked and slid down, hunched up on the floor. “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…”

“Sir?” Alfred, armed with the antiseptic and bandages. “We have a problem. The bat signal just appeared.”

Bruce could think of several choice words at that moment. As Crane started to giggle to himself, somewhat hysterically, Bruce wondered if that wasn’t exactly what he, himself, wanted to do. Instead, he smiled thinly. “I’ll sedate him. If he wakes up, drug him again. And find out what Clona-something-pan…pam…shit.”

“Clonazepam,” Crane repeated obligingly. “Clonidine, and Inderal, and Reboxetine.”

“That,” Bruce agreed, picking up the sedative. “Find out what those are.” He didn’t feel guilty at the hurt expression in Crane’s eyes when he stuck him with the needle. He was too busy feeling guilty about leaving Crane on the floor in smiley face boxers and a polo shirt, sitting amongst the ruins of his glasses.


	3. Stating the Obvious

The walls were crawling again; thick with color and light, moving in ways that walls ought not to. He was having trouble seeing the walls anyway, since the air was so very thick with static, but that wasn’t exactly comforting. Jonathan shut his eyes for a moment, and then looked up at the ceiling. It too was crawling with movement, but the little demons creeping over the stalactites – Jonathan scrubbed at his eyes fitfully and looked again – the little demons which refused to become anything normal, had to be bats. It was the rational explanation, but the rational explanation didn’t stop his body pumping more adrenaline into veins already thick with stale fear. His heart protested weakly, skipping a beat before resuming its regular rhythm. He shut his eyes; they weren’t really there, and if he didn’t look at them, then they would eventually go away. He didn’t have to listen to the horribly skittering, scratchy sounds either.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…”

He was a psychiatrist, of sorts, not a medical doctor, but even in such a delusional state Jonathan knew that palpitations were Step One on the road to a fear-induced heart-attack. What a horribly pathetic way to die – after being beaten on for most of his life, facing up the crime lords and low-lifes of Gotham, taking a straight shot of the gas and then being tazered, to then end it with a heart-attack seemed unreasonably anticlimactic. 

Jonathan waited, patiently repeating his mantra until he calmed down somewhat. Deep, soothing breaths and a concentrated effort to relax were wasted, as he abruptly experienced a sudden sense of extreme vertigo. In combination with the after-effects of the tranquilizer it was too much; he rolled onto his side and vomited, mostly dry heaving since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Tears leaked from under tightly shut eyes and his arms shook with the effort of holding himself upright. He tasted bile and his throat and stomach ached more than his hand and his face and…where were his glasses?

He wiped at his mouth and nose with the back of one hand, taking a moment just to stop and breathe. He’d had them; he’d had them in his hand. Jonathan tentatively opened his eyes and found though the walls continued to move about, changing size and color, the static in the air had thinned somewhat as he peered about on the ground. He found the largest part of the glasses frame and picked it up. An after-image of the path his hand took to reach the frame lingered in the air. Jonathan ignored it, taking stock of the situation.

He was terrified; so no change there. Heart-rate high, hands shaking, teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached abominably and sweating through the polo shirt. However, he’d spent large portions of his life in a similar state of fear and hadn’t let it beat him then, so why should he change old habits?

The straight-jacket was gone, but he’d been in it so long that to be without the weight of the straps at his back made him feel nervous all over again. Polo shirt and – good Christ – Jonathan stared at his legs with a mixture of disgust and incredulity. He hoped the smiley-face boxer shorts were a hallucination; they were repulsive. For all that, at least they were clean. He hadn’t bathed in…had it really been two weeks as his captor had suggested? And he was in no doubt that he was a captive here in Hell.

One hand was bandaged and sore and his face smarted something terrible. He was cold, but at least he didn’t feel quite as wretched as he had on the monorail, motion sick and delirious; now he was just bruised and tired. Not exactly a fine state of affairs, but a step upward, at the very least. If it weren’t for the overwhelming fear and the hallucinations it might have felt like any other night in his past. No, that was a lie. That one, foolish, desperate time he’d had the living daylights kicked out of him and had tried a little home-brewed medication to ease the pain. He’d seen such horrible things, and there the idea had been born, he supposed. At the time he’d been too young to conceive he’d ever be a disgraced professor working at Arkham, indeed Arkham had both terrified and fascinated him back then. Now…Now he was half-naked, sick, drugged to the gills and Batman’s captive.

Batman. The very name infuriated him until the moving walls, and the churning of his stomach, the fear and the pain and the madness didn’t matter any more. They were all subsumed by the rage.

Bruce Wayne was Batman. Jonathan would have kicked himself if he didn’t already feel so put upon. He should have known from the start. Everyone should have known. The man appears from the dead and all of a sudden, so does the Bat-Man. It doesn’t take a PhD to state the obvious.

He turned the bits of wire over in his hands. They’d been good frames, expensive, more than he should have spent, more than he could afford on his Arkham wage. But he liked nice things, and a little bit of petty crime paid off nicely enough that he’d been able to indulge his taste in pretty things. The small part of him that was still entirely Jonathan Crane was sneering at the rest of him. Clinging to old glasses like some child with a security blanket? How terribly Jungian. The madness, not the slight eccentricities he’d had before, but the Scarecrow – this was his field, he knew a multiple personality when he saw…lived with it – reminded him that those shards were all that was left of Jonathan Crane as he’d been. And so he clung to them. 

He wasn’t chained, and really, he should have been grateful considering how damn sore he felt. It sickened him though; they just left him on a great stone slab as though he was no more dangerous than…well, he’d been thinking of Little Miss Rachel, but that little stunt with the tazer had shorted out his mask and damn near left him unconscious. So perhaps...

Jonathan smiled grimly and pushed himself to his feet. The floor swam wildly under him and the demons – bats – set up a horrible screeching. Give someone a powerful enough weapon and even a creature as fundamentally useless as Bruce Wayne’s bit on the side could become a formidable opponent. 

What he needed was a long range weapon. He couldn’t take Wayne by brute force; he’d proven that in a saddening display of uselessness before. However, he wasn’t so broken that he couldn’t pull a trigger. Not that that would help the delusions, or the cackling of the Scarecrow in the back of his head that killing the Bat would not only be the most sensible thing he could ever do, but that it would be the death of Jonathan Crane once and for all, and wouldn’t that be wonderful you pathetic weakling?

The problem was that Batman was Bruce Wayne. Of course it was Wayne; Jonathan’s own terrible luck dictated that it had to be him. 

He slid one foot and then the other across the floor, feeling more the madman than ever before, forced into the same hobbling shuffle that so many of his patients had assumed. How could he walk when he couldn’t see the floor for all the static and Things That Weren’t There? 

All his foolish little indulgences were coming back to haunt him. So why shouldn’t Wayne be Batman? It was just fitting. 

A man has basic needs and since Jonathan was more than used to taking care of them on his own, he had set up a system, which wasn’t quite as neurotic as it sounded. He chose an object to fantasize on based on certain standards of power, intelligence, charisma and looks. The choice was then analyzed. A healthy fantasy life is important, but only if it would have a useful effect on his psyche, or else the entire thing would become self-indulgent and possibly damaging. 

For example, porn was out of the question because it made the act base and common, and the people in the magazines were worth neither his time nor his attention.

Ra’s had been an obvious choice but it seemed like a bad idea to think about one’s colleague. It would have placed him in a subordinate situation and he would not play second fiddle, not even for a man like that. This wasn’t to say that Ra’s hadn’t had him over several available surfaces, but there was a rather vast difference between a handful of moments together and a good basis for a fantasy. The latter smacked of fixation.

And now his own damnable luck had managed to catch him up yet again. His last subject had possessed the looks, the charisma, and the power, though he had thought him lacking in intelligence – though that was passable, as it made him look good in comparison and even in one’s fantasy life, that seemed important. He’d chosen, of all the people in Gotham, of all the people on the wretched planet, Bruce Wayne.

He stumbled into a large box which, irritatingly, wouldn’t retain the same size or color for more than two seconds at a time. Jonathan pushed the lid off with a resounding clatter. He had two options, he decided as he felt about inside the box. It looked like rotten meat and maggots crawling about inside, so he shut his eyes and worked by feel alone; if he couldn’t see it then it wasn’t real. He wasn’t afraid of such things, but he was afraid of losing his mind, and this certainly qualified. He focused instead on how furious he was at how his own body and mind had turned against him. 

He found something that felt like a gun but when he opened his eyes, all he could see was oozing dead flesh.

“I am not afraid of spoiled hamburgers,” Jonathan muttered, tucking the wire from his glasses into the breast pocket of the polo shirt.

There really wasn’t anything for it, save for his two options; If he didn’t kill Batman, then he was going to have to sleep with Bruce Wayne, just to get the potential for fixation out of his system. Then he could kill the Bat. 

For someone so totally insane, that last little thought certainly made the Scarecrow stop and raise an eyebrow. That was the most flawed logic that either of them had come up with in quite some time and it was starting to look like Jonathan could write a second PhD in flawed logic. 

An engine revved as the Batmobile came flying through the waterfall to stop only a few yards away from where Jonathan stood. He fumbled with the gun, trying to cock it and hearing enough of a click that he hoped it would work. Jonathan stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over the crate, because no matter how many times he told himself he wasn’t afraid of Batman or his Freudian dream of a car, the things they appeared as were not comforting and had a very vast potential to cause him bodily harm.

The car opened and Batman climbed out slowly, as though he was tired. Jonathan took aim, refusing to be embarrassed about having to hold the gun with two hands. His arms were tired, bruised bone deep and his hands were shaking hard enough that he was worried he might pull the trigger before he was entirely ready.

“Put it down, Crane.” Wayne pulled the mask off, setting it to one side. He sounded as tired as he looked, but under that was a sort of derisive pity.

Jonathan quirked up the side of his mouth in a little half-smile. “I don’t think so.” The shaking of his arms left after-images in his vision so the gun and his body looked like they were haloed. Wayne, thankfully, wasn’t oozing or changing color but retained normality except for the way his eyes were glowing and the fact that his voice would occasionally tunnel into near incomprehensibility.

Wayne strode towards him, cape billowing. How disgustingly overdramatic; it was a pity he’d have to kill the Bat – he’d make a fascinating case study.

Jonathan pulled the trigger.

There was a very satisfying clunk, but nothing else. The gun was snatched out of his hands and he was seized by one arm, tight enough to bruise him further. Wayne pressed the barrel hard against the underside of Jonathan’s jaw, tipping his head back painfully far. He snarled and tried to pull away, but it only hurt more and he felt rather like someone up against the metaphorical immoveable object. The spikes on Wayne’s gauntlets were cutting into his hands, so he stopped trying to push him off that way and instead reverted back to one of his oldest tricks; when in the face of danger: freeze.

“Do you even know what this is?” Wayne demanded, using the gun to move Jonathan’s head so he could peer into his eyes. “Can you even see with your pupils that tiny?”

Jonathan arched one eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be some sort of medical question?” he asked tightly.

Wayne barked out a laugh, pulling the cold metal way from Jonathan’s throat, replacing it instead with his fingers so he could check Jonathan’s pulse. “It’s a grappling gun, without the hook in it. You’d have done better if you’d just thrown it at my head.” He tossed the gun back into the crate, which now looked as though it was filled with fetuses. “You need to sit back down; your pulse is sky high.” He used the punishing grip on Jonathan’s arm to drag him back over to the slab, pushing him down into a sitting position.

“And what have we learned from all this?” Jonathan asked in a sing-song voice. He knew what he’d learned; he didn’t like being hauled about like a sack of potatoes and he didn’t like the pity he kept hearing in Wayne’s voice.

“That you’ll burn up my tranqs in half the normal time,” Wayne replied succinctly.

Jonathan experienced that horrible vertigo again, forcing him to cling to the stone and the soft rustling of the bats overhead turned into whispering voices and taunting faces staring down at him. He rolled onto his side so he could press his body against the stone and still put his hands over his ears so he didn’t have to listen to the horrible things they were saying to him, without feeling like he was going to fall off the edge of the world. Of all the things he didn’t need at the moment, painful reminders of his past from hallucinations were probably right at the top of the list. The nausea he was getting from the vertigo was up there too. Bonus points if it made him sick. Jonathan shut his eyes to block out Wayne’s pitying expression and started humming to himself. It was probably horribly off key, and all he could think of to hum was that terrible music the night-watch used to play at Arkham, on his tinny little radio, but at least he couldn’t hear the voices.

This time, when Wayne caught his wrists in his hands, he wasn’t squeezing as though he could try to break Jonathan’s bones. He gently pulled Jonathan’s hands away from his ears, and his touch helped ease the vertigo, though it did nothing for the voices.

“Ssh.” Wayne ran one thumb over the soft skin on the inside of Jonathan’s wrist. “It’s not real, remember?”

Jonathan’s irritation suddenly outweighed his fear, and abruptly the voices quieted. “I hadn’t realized that,” he said sweetly, as though disdain wasn’t etched into his face. He snatched at this wonderful break of lucidity though, and, taking his opportunities where they were, he continued; “Pants would be nice.” What was supposed to come out cold and sardonic sounded rather petulant instead. He tugged his wrists out of Wayne’s grip, pushing himself to his feet.

Wayne handed him a pair of jeans, and he could already tell that they were going to be embarrassingly large. Jonathan turned his back, pulling the boxer shorts off before dragging the jeans up over his legs. He’d been right, they sat dangerously low and the ends of the legs pooled around his feet.

When he turned around again, Wayne looked a little surprised. “You…”

Jonathan sat back down before he fell over. “That pattern made me feel queasy,” he said by way of explanation. “Also, they’re absurd, and I won’t be made a mockery of.”

Wayne set about ridding himself of his costume whiles Jonathan watched curiously. “How long will you be like this?” Wayne asked, hanging up his gloves and mask and setting into the numerous Kevlar belts and straps and buckles.

Jonathan shrugged, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?”

Jonathan pulled the wire out of his pocket, turning it over in his hands. “Now, now, that’s not a very nice way of putting things,” he chided softly. “But then I suppose I should be grateful that you’re not pulling my hair, or throwing me about this time. Tell me, Batman, does it make you feel powerful to hurt someone weaker than you?”

Wayne made a face. “Don’t be an ass, Crane. I intend to use my advantages against you, as I’m sure you intend to do in return. You may not be able to wrestle me but you’re not powerless, and don’t think I’m foolish enough to forget that.”

It shouldn’t have made him so pleased to hear a backhanded compliment form the Bat, but Jonathan smiled again. It wasn’t a nice smile, and he knew it, but a nice smile would have shown his susceptibility to such flattery and that was not something he wanted to share with Wayne. “And there you have it. You’ve just answered your own question.” He found he had slipped back into the same lecturing tone of voice he used to use back in his professor days.

“You’re not dead because you’re not powerless?”

Jonathan tapped one finger against his temple. “Getting warmer…Come now, I should have thought that Batman would be good at puzzles, or are you really just here for the action?”

“My God, you are arrogant, aren’t you?” Wayne said it with a kind of appreciation, though. “You think you’re that much smarter than the rest of Gotham that you can retain your sanity when the entirety of the Narrows couldn’t?”

“The proof,” Jonathan drawled, “is in the pudding, my dear Bat.”

Wayne, the batsuit peeled off to the waist, toweled himself off a little and Jonathan quickly resumed his examination of his broken glasses. Well-tailored suits could hide a multitude of sins, but in Wayne’s case the suits themselves had committed the sin by hiding the body underneath. Jonathan chewed on his bottom lip, absently licking the blood from the splits. His estimations of Bruce Wayne had been off, and that, in turn, was throwing him out of balance. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eyes and couldn’t help the grin that cracked his lips further.

“Snap.” Where he had bruises on his biceps forming the shape of Batman’s hands, Wayne had his own purple and black decorations. Wayne looked over, confused, but Jonathan only licked at the blood on his mouth and grinned to himself.

Wayne set the towel down and finished changing into a pair of jeans and t-shirt. “I’m going to set up somewhere for you to stay down here. So you can be good and sit there quietly, or I can make you stay. Which one, Crane?”

Jonathan sighed heavily. “You know, I do have a doctorate. If you’re going to call me ‘Crane’ you could at least do me the courtesy of calling me Doctor Crane.”

“Jonathan, are you going to sit still or-”

Alfred made a rather timely return bearing the straight-jacket. “Master Wayne, the rest of the supplies have arriv- Good Lord, he’s awake. I apologize, I had no idea.”

Wayne took the jacket. “That’s all right; he should still be out. Could you keep an eye on him while I bring everything down?” He held it out to Jonathan, indicating he should put his arms into the sleeves.

Jonathan considered refusing, but the ache was really starting to set in and he didn’t feel like being hit again. And, as loathe as he was to admit it, he’d grown used to having it on and he felt odd without it. Not as odd as he felt having Wayne address him by his first name though. That was something of a curve-ball. He could understand why Wayne wouldn’t call him Doctor – it was a power issue – but ‘Jonathan’? He did as he was told and put his arms in the sleeves so Wayne could strap him back in.

The fact that he felt more secure that way irritated him.

“Bring me back some cigarettes,” he said, more of a demand than a request, but Wayne nodded nevertheless and then vanished up an elevator. “So,” Jonathan said to Alfred, “Bruce Wayne is the Bat-man. That must be something of a chore for you.”

Alfred sniffed and ignored him.

He didn’t like being ignored, but to try and carry on a conversation would seem a little desperate, so he sat, polo shirt ill-fitting under the jacket, and tried not to let the creeping boredom make him slip back into fear. Thankfully Wayne returned (then went away again, and back, and again) with all the things he’d ordered. Alfred made a hasty exit.

“The builders laughed when I asked to buy a pack. I guess it doesn’t really fit my image.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know you smoked.” Bruce lit a cigarette for him and held it to Jonathan’s lips. 

Jonathan took a deep drag, coughed and choked on the smoke and gave Bruce a sickly smile. “I don’t. Didn’t.” He tried another, smaller drag and managed not to make such an ass out of himself, actually managing to blow a thin stream of smoke out of his nose. “I thought it might be an apt time to take it up, seeing as I’ll have nothing better to do with my time.”

He took a third hit and then – distracted by the smell of Wayne’s cologne and the lingering scent of his sweat, and the sudden kindness he was being shown – he allowed a rather terrible lapse in judgment to occur. 

Jonathan leaned over; overbalancing in the straightjacket and managing to turn what should have been reasonably smooth into an awkward, clumsy disaster. Their lips met with bruising force, teeth clicking together, then Jonathan’s neck refused to hold up his body via his mouth, and he toppled over entirely. He landed on the ground at Bruce Wayne’s feet. There had been less humiliating moments in his life.


	4. Questions Without Answers

One of the downsides to being straight-jacketed is that it makes getting up from a prone position more difficult than it ought to be – something Jonathan was discovering, much to his embarrassment and disgust. It brought back unpleasant memories, and with the memories came the old fear. It was the fear that Wayne would kick him while he was down, that he’d shown too much of himself and had closed the situation to any potential for manipulation, that he was fifteen again – a late bloomer, finally creeping out of puberty, and far too smart for his own good – having words like ‘fag’ and ‘queer’ thrown at him. Those days when he still thought queer meant odd and a fag was wood, or British for cigarette.

He’d confronted such fears a long time ago, faced up to the demons and broken them down before him until they were the ones groveling at his feet, but he wasn’t fifteen (or sixteen, or eighteen…) any more and yet there he was again, facedown in the dirt.

A laugh tore itself out of his throat, even as the floor shivered under him and dropped away. It hurt to laugh like that, digging elbows into his ribs and scraping his cheek on the stones, and his throat and chest ached from the harsh sound, as though it really was brittle and sharp enough to cut apart his insides. 

Whether he had – or had not – truly conquered those old fears didn’t seem to matter as one fear triggered another. His heart-rate sky rocketed, there were flashes of light appearing in his peripheral vision, and then his stomach dropped as much as the floor seemed to have. In combination with the spinning, the overwhelming urge to get to his feet and run like hell, and the knowledge he was trapped, it was all he could do to just roll onto his side and start to heaving again. Jonathan couldn’t stop laughing even though it felt like his intestines were going to spill out of his mouth because nothing else was coming up, not even bile.

Even through the moisture beading at the corner of his eyes, and the horrible spin the world had taken, he could still see Wayne’s feet walking away.

Jonathan bit down on his lip until it bled – not that it took much to open the cracks – and pressed his shoulders into the ground so he could get his knees under himself. “Now there, dear friends, is a real gentleman,” he said scornfully, slumping down against the stone slab. Shutting his eyes made the spinning stop, though it didn’t do anything to alleviate his physical symptoms. 

There was no reply, save for the sound of metal being dragged over stone and then the high-pitched whine of an electric drill.

He cracked one eye open, then the other, thankful that the serum didn’t make for long lasting series of hallucinations as the world seemed to have resumed spinning on its regular schedule. “You know,” Jonathan continued, in a jovial tone of voice that didn’t sound quite as forced as it really was, “homophobia – Latin stem, Greek root; the irrational fear of gay men and women – is being proven not to be irrational at all. It stems from the fear the homophobe has that they might actually be a homosexual themselves and therefore they repress those desires by lashing out at the source of their fear.”

Wayne looked up from drilling two of the sheets of steel together. “Do you have a point, or do you just enjoy the sound of your own voice?”

Jonathan quirked his lips into a smile. “Everything leads back to fear.”

“You’re getting repetitive, Doctor. I’ve heard that from you before.” 

He was making a box, Jonathan realized; tall enough to stand in, long enough to lie down in. Wayne was making him a cage. He swallowed hard, digging ragged nails into his palms, using the real pain to hold back the irrational fear. “That’s a very impressive drill you have,” he said, dryly. “Reminds me of your car. Tell me, all those women you flaunt-”

Wayne smirked at him and resumed drilling, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” he called out, over the grating screech of metal on metal.

“Don’t quote me Freud. The old bastard was an impotent bisexual.” Jonathan wrinkled his nose in distaste. He struggled to his feet, managing not to put his back out too badly in the process and made his slow, shuffling way over to Wayne.

“What do you know about botany?” Wayne asked abruptly.

Jonathan prodded at one of the mattresses with his bare foot. “You know, one of the signs of schizophrenia is illogical jumps in thought pattern.”

Wayne stopped the drill and gave Jonathan a nasty look. It might have been intimidating if only he hadn’t been subjected to far worse. Jonathan smiled bleakly in return. “Just answer the damn question, Crane.”

“If you give me the chemical properties, then a fair amount. Actual botany, as in poking about in the mud, peering at the greenery…not that much,” he admitted as the drill started up again. The sound was starting to wear away at his very last nerve and he was grinding his teeth again. Jonathan turned away to kick idly at the pile of white sheets on the ground. He desperately wanted to ask why, but figured a pointed silence might draw the answer out of Wayne without his having to ask.

Wayne maneuvered another sheet of the metal into place, continuing to fashion Jonathan’s new home. “You ever been to Seattle?”

Jonathan snorted. “Once or twice, on conferences.” He stared up at the roof of the cave, trying to force the little demons to turn back into bats. “I hate Seattle. Grey skies, grey suits, grey people…I imagine purgatory is a lot like what that conference felt like.”

“Did you ever meet a woman called Doctor Pamela Isley?”

He resisted the urge to grin and kept his eyes up on the bats. If he squinted, they almost went back to their normal shape. It was a very small shuffle in the right direction, but at least he wasn’t losing his gift for drawing information out of people. “Perhaps.” Jonathan wavered on his feet a little. He was going to have to try and get some food or he was going to collapse again, like that unfortunate incident about a week ago. “I meet a lot of people.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Wayne clenching his jaw, clearly biting back irritation. “Short, red-head, pretty,” Wayne growled between gritted teeth. He sounded a lot more like Batman that way. “I imagine she knew a lot about the poisonous properties of plants; I’m sure you would have gotten along famously.”

Jonathan shrugged one shoulder. “Not that I can recall. I would have remembered someone like that.”

“What about Jason Woodrue?”

“Giving up the high-flying life of crime fighting and playboy glamour to fly to Seattle and play gardener?” Jonathan shook his head slightly, a little half-smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. “What ever will your fans say?”

Wayne sighed, then one eyebrow quirked up in concern. “Sit down, before you fall down.” He gestured at one of the mattresses and waited until Jonathan had, rather ungracefully, slumped into a sitting position and then came to join him. They sat at opposite ends, Jonathan hunched up over his knees, Wayne staring studiously ahead at the partially constructed box.

“I’m getting a little tired of playing Twenty Questions, Batman. If possible, I would like to get to the point some time in the foreseeable future and then I would like something to eat, if that isn’t too much of a strain for you.” Jonathan tossed his head, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. It wasn’t working as well as one might have hoped.

Wayne turned to look at him then. “If I got you the proper supplies, could you make an antidote to your serum? The Narrows is a mess and, quite frankly, so are you. I need you lucid.” He reached over and absently pushed the errant hair out of Jonathan’s eyes. “I need your help, Doctor Crane. Between the examples that Batman and the Scarecrow set, it seems like every psychotic with an eye for chaos is donning a mask and heading for Gotham.”

Jonathan didn’t turn his head into the touch but only because he managed to turn the movement into looking away. “Sounds like New York. You’d think people would be too busy trying to tangle with Spiderman to bother with this place.”

He got a soft chuckle for that one. “New York is a tougher nut to crack, even without their resident hero. Doctor Woodrue conducted some sort of experiment on Doctor Isley. The details are a little hazy but from what Gordon – inspector Gordon – tells me, Woodrue is dead and Isley is in Gotham calling herself Poison Ivy. “

“Wreaking havoc, no doubt,” Jonathan said dryly. “Sounds simple enough; just pull off her mask and slap her around a bit and I’m sure you’ll have another lunatic to put in your box.” He couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“It’s not a box.” And that was definitely a note of defensiveness. “It’s a safe room.”

Jonathan snorted. “Ah. How foolish of me.”

“I’m using the mattresses on the walls and floor,” Wayne said stiffly. “When you have an attack-”

“You’ll have a padded room to keep me in.” Jonathan shut his eyes, hunching over his knees further. He felt nauseous again, but swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “Well, it sounds like you have everything in hand. Why on earth do you need me?”

Either Wayne had shifted closer, or Jonathan had, and the fact that he wasn’t sure which worried him. “She uses plant-based toxins, I need something to combat them, and since she’s immune to poison herself, I need something that can take her down, or at least neutralize her effects. You said it yourself, psychopharmacology is your field. If you can make an antidote, find yourself a cure, I’m not saying I won’t see justice done, but…”

Jonathan shook his head. “I’ve not been sane for a long time, Batman. I just control it better than most people.” Wayne made a surprised noise, so Jonathan looked up, grinning bleakly. “I’m insane, not an idiot, and a cure will relieve me of the symptoms from the gas, but it won’t make me better.” The truth, in all its bare, ragged glory, was sometimes more useful than any obfuscation. If he was doomed to be kept as some unfortunate trophy, or pet project, then so be it. But he would not give Batman the satisfaction of comfortable lies. He knew the truth, and it had gnawed away at him for the longest time until he had come to the conclusion that his own mania was wholly different from those that he treated on a daily basis. Rooted in trauma and fear, yes, but with a sharp mind behind it. He could control his own fear and therefore his own instability. 

“Why did you kiss me?”

“I do believe I mentioned the-”

“I’m not schizophrenic, Crane.” Wayne was turning the drill on and off so it whirred uselessly in the air. A nervous gesture, maybe, but it wasn’t a nice sound and it sent Jonathan’s skin crawling. 

Jonathan glared at him. “Stop doing that.”

Wayne put the drill down. “Stop avoiding the question.”

“Oh I don’t know,” he said glibly. “To see if I could whore my way out of this mess.” Jonathan couldn’t say it and look at Wayne though. It had never worked before; he’d be a fool to think it would have worked now. And, as he said, he might be many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. His hands clenched in the confines of the straight-jacket and the sharp edges of his glasses’ wire brought a small measure of comfort. 

I am Doctor Jonathan Crane. Nothing can break me. I am the master of fear. I am not afraid…I am not afraid.

“You’re lying.” 

Wayne closed the gap between them, one hand on the back of Jonathan’s neck, their faces far apart enough that Jonathan could see Wayne’s face without going cross-eyed, but no further. To his shame, Jonathan’s breath caught and something warm and dark uncoiled in his gut. He shut his eyes and tried to turn his face away, but that strong hand tightened to the point of pain, keeping him in place.

“And you’re planning on keeping me in a box, so I don’t see why I should cooperate.” Jonathan had been aiming for defiance, but it came out breathless instead. The light haloed around Wayne in a sort of after-image and he was feeling light-headed from the vertigo and hunger. Jonathan bit his lip to keep from doing anything foolish.

That hand tugged him closer until their lips barely touched. “Why did you kiss me?” Wayne asked, breath warm and slightly damp against Jonathan’s mouth.

Jonathan could list several good reasons to jerk away. 

One, the situation was rapidly getting out of his control and that made him extremely nervous.  
Two, he would not be party to whatever sick game the Bat was playing.  
Three, fixation was a bad idea and the whole scenario smacked of the Stockholm Syndrome.  
Four, he really wanted to kiss Wayne again, just to push them both, and considering his state of mind, any ideas that he had that sounded like ‘a good idea at the time’ probably weren’t.  
Five, he hadn’t brushed his teeth for two weeks and had, in that time, been sick approximately eight times.  
Six, Wayne’s hand was warm and heavy and it was making rationalization a very difficult task.

However, no matter how many reasons he could list to put up a fuss, he couldn’t think of a single good answer to Wayne’s question. Mostly because he really didn’t have one himself.

He didn’t have any answers because he couldn’t remember what the question was.

There was a pressure building up behind his eyes and his bones felt heavy as the weights in the school gym he could never lift. He couldn’t remember why that was important.

“Having nothing, nothing can he lose,” is what he found his mouth saying. He couldn’t remember where he heard that. 

He couldn’t remember where he was.

Jonathan realized he was shaking – not just trembling, but bone deep shudders – and the lights in his peripheral vision were creeping inwards and blinding him.

“I am not afraid,” he whispered, against Wayne’s mouth. And he knew that much was a lie. 

He knew he was terrified because his body was shaking, and he was sweating, and his mouth was dry as the streets of Gotham never were, though his throat seemed choked with saliva and bile. He couldn’t remember his name for all the voices whispering and taunting in his ears. 

Scarecrow. 

That’s not his name, it’s not who he is.

The crushing pressure of Wayne’s mouth on his was sudden and wholly unexpected. He opened his mouth anyway, and never mind who he was, or where he was, because the hands on his neck and in his hair were real enough.

“I must be mad,” Wayne muttered against his lips, but kissed him anyway, and it wasn’t friendly, or sweet, or even nice. Teeth bruising lips, and tongues scraping past two weeks of filth, until blood seeped up between them.

He whimpered when the hand in his hair tightened and Wayne pulled away enough to let him breathe for a moment, enough for him to say, “I’m mad, you’re mad, we’re all mad.”

Somehow it was ironic that Wayne said, “How do you know I’m mad?” because Jonathan didn’t know if Wayne even knew he wasn’t talking, because he couldn’t remember what to think, only flashes of things he’d read, things he thought he’d forgotten but that are now all he could keep hold of.

“Because you’re here,” Jonathan replied and he couldn’t see Wayne’s face anymore because of all the lights and all the static. “And everyone here is mad.”

Maybe Wayne did know, because he laughed and pulled Jonathan in for another kiss, pushing him back on the mattress until Jonathan’s elbows were digging into Wayne’s stomach because of the awkward positioning of the straight-jacket.

“Why did you kiss me?” Jonathan asked in what little breathing space he had.

Wayne’s smile took on a hard edge. “Because I have everything to lose.” He bit down on Jonathan’s bottom lip, hard, so all the little cracks feathered open and all Jonathan could taste was copper and even in his hazy, confused state he could recognize pain for what it was.

Jonathan hissed between his teeth, hips arching up against Wayne’s abdomen – damn his height – and savagely returned the favor. Only it turned into another kiss, smoother now, for all the blood to ease the way. Then Wayne’s hand yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

“Why shouldn’t I put you in a box and leave you to rot for everything you’ve done?”

“So send me to Arkham,” Jonathan snarled, struggling. “And they’ll pump me full of sedatives and anti-psychotics until I’m little more than a vegetable. You can come and visit, see me tube fed and drooling, and you can feel like you’ve done right in the world.”

Wayne licked a bloody path up his throat, rasping over two weeks of pathetic stubble, then bit down where his jaw met his neck. “Can you make an antidote or not?”

“Yes.” That might have been a lie, but he wouldn’t know until he tried. 

“Then you’re more useful to me here.” Wayne sat up, leaving him breathless and confused. “I’m going to finish the safe-box and then I’m going to get you a razor and a toothbrush.” He stood, picking up the drill. “Just…just stay there and try to be good.”

Jonathan lay still, feeling the ache set into his arms and back. ‘More useful to me here’ wasn’t exactly the kind of answer he was looking for, but at least he could remember his name, and what he was looking for – a way out of the mess he’d somehow landed himself in. Perhaps it wasn’t the best of situations, but so long as Wayne wasn’t going to lock him up and leave him to his demons, then perhaps he could turn things to his advantage. If he could make the antidote then he could escape once he was back in his right mind.

“And food?” He tucked his knees up to the side and shut his eyes as the drill started up again.

He was exhausted just trying to keep the world looking as it should, never mind holding everything together enough to carry on a conversation. Since Wayne didn’t seem inclined to talk to him for the time being, Jonathan made himself as comfortable as he could – about as easy to accomplish in a straight-jacket as getting up – and fell asleep.


	5. The Story is in the Soil

“You know it’s not a problem, Alfred.” Fox’s wry smile could be heard even down the phone. “It’s not as if anyone’s been using that stuff anyway.”

Alfred, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, put two dry pieces of toast on a place – the new good china, incidentally, but it had been chipped in transit – next to a glass of stirred flat coca-cola and a glass of water. “Wonderful. I’ll be sure to tell Master Bruce that you’ll be by later.”

Fox was silent for a moment, then; “Can I ask why, or should I put this one down next to spelunking?”

“I beg your pardon?” Alfred put the toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, razor, foam and mirror on the tray as well.

“What Mister Wayne uses all the equipment for,” Fox said dryly.

Alfred took the phone back in hand. “I daresay you’ll find out soon enough. Though I am of the opinion that the less who know about this, the better.” He sighed heavily. “Let us just say that Master Bruce has a rather notorious guest…downstairs. A young doctor, fond of Halloween masks and-”

“You’ve got Crane in the – in your basement?” Fox sounded as though he was caught somewhere between incredulity and amusement. “Well, of course, why not?” He chuckled. “I am sorry, that must be troublesome.”

“To say the least.” Alfred shook his head. “Master Bruce seems convinced he’ll be an integral part of finding the cure for the Narrows, but I’m not sure the Doctor is entirely sensible. Either way, I shall have to speak to you later.” He said his goodbyes and hung up, gathering the tray and a towel, before venturing from the caravan down to the Batcave. 

The area over the elevator had been sectioned off as ‘unsafe,’ and it was rather early in the morning, so there were no builders to pry into where it was that Alfred was headed. In his business, Alfred was willing to take small mercies when they came and considering the state of what was lurking down in the Batcave, it seemed like a very small mercy indeed.

It was bright down in the cave, with all the artificial lights. Indeed, it was almost more cheerful down amongst the stalagmites and wet rock with the cozy glow from the lamps than up where it was drizzling again, turning the building site into a veritable swamp. Alfred set the tray down on the slab and regarded Bruce’s progress.

Three metal sheets were riveted together; the fourth was on a hinge, so the entire wall could be swung open like an enormous door. Embedded into the door was the shatter-proof glass to allow in more light and so that the occupant of the safe-box couldn’t get up to anything without being noticed. Inside, the mattresses had been affixed to the walls, door and floor, and all the mattresses had been covered with the sheets, so the blue and beige swirling design on the bare mattress wouldn’t upset Crane. There was no roof, but then again, there didn’t need to be. The two locks on the outside, one at the top of the door, one at the bottom, were deadbolts and there was no way to break the door open from the inside. The only way out would be to climb over the top and Crane was a) too short for that, and b) straight-jacketed, rendering the box wholly secure.

Crane himself had been woken from his nap – since Bruce had needed the mattress – and was curled in a sitting position on the bare stone, quietly seething. 

“I brought Doctor Crane something to eat,” Alfred said by way of announcing his presence. “Do you need anything else?”

Bruce looked up from affixing the last of the hinges and shook his head. “Is Lucius coming?”

“Yes, sir.”

The smile that flickered across Bruce’s face looked something like relief. “Wonderful.” He put the drill down next to the tray. “What do you think?”

Alfred regarded the safe-box. “It certainly looks secure,” he hedged.

Down on the floor, Crane snorted but didn’t say anything. The look on his face was venomous. Bruce used the straps on the back of the jacket to haul Crane to his feet, ignoring the hiss that escaped the doctor, though whether it was in pain or from spite, Alfred couldn’t have said. 

“Food or shave first?”

Alfred got the impression that he really wasn’t needed, but then again he wasn’t needed upstairs either, and the pleasure of watching Jonathan Crane looking about as dangerous as an angry kitten was far too delightful to pass up. He made himself busy tidying up the mess that Crane had made of the box of weapons.

“I can do both myself,” Crane snapped peevishly, “I’m not incompetent. Untie me and give me the damn razor.”

Bruce made no move to undo the straight-jacket. “The problem is,” he said affably, “that I don’t trust you.”

Crane stared at him for a moment. “You don’t trust me?” he said finally. “With a safety razor? You’ll trust me with a cigarette after I set you on fire, but you won’t let me use a safety razor?”

As loathe as Alfred was to admit it, even to himself, the doctor had a point. 

Bruce was smiling, though, this time in genuine mirth. “All right, Crane, I see your point. But if you must know, I was more worried about you harming yourself.”

“Do I look suicidal to you?” Crane arched an eyebrow. “And still, with a _safety razor_?”

“You can’t tell me that your hands are anywhere near steady enough to shave.” Bruce pointed out. “Now stop complaining and hold still.”

Crane sighed in a most put-upon way but lifted his chin, “Very well then, have at me.”

It might have been a trick of the light, or his own imaginings, but for one very short moment Alfred thought he saw something there. The little gesture of submission to his fate and the half-smile on Crane’s lips and the answering twitch at the corner of Bruce’s mouth spoke of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something was amiss, something was more amiss than usual, rather, and it was unsettling. His earlier enjoyment of Crane’s discomfort had been rather abruptly replaced with an urge to go and wait for Lucius, because he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what it was that he was missing.

The elevator clanged up to the dreary light of day as Bruce began the task of tidying up the Scarecrow.

*~*~*~*

Gotham was known for several things: Wayne enterprises and all that it entailed, including the Prince of Gotham; Batman, who was responsible for bringing Gotham into the collection of cities all blessed and cursed with superheroes and villains and vigilantes; and the monorail. It was not known for its abundance of greenery. In fact, it was one of those unfortunate cities without a scrap of wildlife in it, save for the obligatory squirrels and raccoons. True, there were one or two parks around the city, but in these bleak times they had become equally bleak places – the last stand of Mother Nature in a lost battle. 

Just on the outskirts of town was the one exception to the rule. The rapid growth of Gotham had left it with innumerable empty buildings, derelict and boarded up. Home now only to the homeless and the rats. It was here that an explosion of topiary had taken place turning almost half a block into dense, jungle-like forestry. Not that anyone ventured down those parts to notice. Even the monorail no longer made its stops there, and it was mostly quiet, being so far from the center of the city that all but a very few of the vagrants had migrated onwards. Indeed, it was so dense that it would be almost impossible for the average citizen to make his way into the heart of this unusual jungle. The fact that these plants took an almost sentient offence to interlopers almost made sure that the unusual citizens would have a difficult time in their journey. 

They were large plants, too large, often, for their respective species and types. Savagely adorned with thorns to scratch, vines to clutch and roots to trip these plants had the air of being well fed, and not entirely on sunlight and minerals. The remains of an arm sticking out from under a tangle of vines was testimony enough. 

The center of the outbreak was a nursery where the plants had grown wildly out of control, bursting out of their glass confines, spreading and thriving and forming a protective barrier around the area. If it was near impossible to enter into the jungle, then it were supernaturally bad odds of the errant traveler coming anywhere close to the greenhouses, as the closer one got, the more tightly packed the plants were. However, the young woman with her makeup tear-streaked and a duffel bag over one shoulder, making her way directly to the nursery, didn’t even look at the dangers around her. She simply continued her miserable trudge and the plants moved out of her way, vines lifting and tree roots flattening, until she could step over the broken glass of the door and into the nursery. There wasn’t so much as a scratch on her whitened skin or a tear in her harlequin costume. She dropped the duffel at the door and sniffled unhappily. 

“Ivy? You here?”

A large purple flower that gave not only the impression that it would gladly eat a person along with its mulch but that it would _rather_ eat a person than its mulch, shifted to one side and the woman that Gotham had come to know as Poison Ivy stepped delicately into view. She didn’t look much like the tabloids had painted her. There, she was all glamour and show. Here, in her own territory there was no need for such theatrics, but she still looked just as captivating, if not more so. Her long red hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her hands and arms were muddy up to the elbow. She was barefoot and there was a streak of dirt across her nose and one cheek. Instead of her usual costume, Ivy was wearing a simple t-shirt – obviously a throwback from her less villainous days – which was absolutely filthy with dirt and a skirt which looked to be made of leaves.

Ivy took one look at her visitor and sighed. “Oh Harley, not again.”

Harley’s bottom lip wobbled in an admirable attempt to keep back the tears. She shrugged and tried a smile, though it came out somewhat watery. “It’s not-” Harley paused halfway through her sentence to whip an enormous handkerchief seemingly out of nowhere and blow her nose. “It’s not like I don’t help. But Mista J said-” The handkerchief had removed most of the white from her nose so it looked oddly pink there in the middle of her face. 

This time it was Ivy who cut her off with a rather unladylike snort. “Darling, what he said is irrelevant. That man is…” she trailed off, as Harley’s eyes filled up again, and shook her head. “You can stay as long as you like.”

“I brought a toothbrush,” Harley said in a small voice. “And somethin’ I can poke about in the mud in, an’ my gun, an’ I was gonna buy you a housewarming plant, but I figured it wouldn’t like being in the duffle very much, so I picked up some seeds at the supermarket.” She sighed heavily and blew her nose again, taking off more of the makeup. “He’ll ask me to come back…” Harley squared her shoulders then and the grin she gave Ivy was much more genuine. “So, I hear you’re up to something.”

Ivy brushed at the dirt on her hands. “Do you have any idea what all that…steam did to the Narrows?” She headed back into the depths of the greenhouse, checking leaves and roots as she went.

Harley picked up her duffle again and trailed after Ivy. “Sure I do. Everyone went gaga thanks to the Scarecrow.” She giggled, stowing the handkerchief. “Y’ know I think I met Doctor Crane once. Passed him in the hall at the very least.”

“It broiled all my seedlings!” Ivy spat. “That maniac destroyed all my hard work and now I have to start again. Do you know how difficult it is to even get into the Narrows now, never mind replace all my poor, murdered shoots?”

“In the Narrows?” Harley did not look impressed. “Nothing grows in the Narrows.”

Ivy turned with a sly smile on her lips. “Not yet.” Behind what seemed to be the King Kong of rhododendrons was a laboratory, sitting amongst a veritable forest of moss and flowers. Ivy tapped one of the bottles with a dirty fingernail. “The amount of effort needed to foster life in that hellhole of a city is far more than even I can afford to expend. Once my plants have taken root and found access to sunlight and water they can support themselves. It’s the initial startup that I’m finding impossible.”

Harley peered at the bottle. “So what’s this? Super growth formula?”

“Something like that.” Ivy sighed. “The first problem is that I’d need massive quantities and some way of distributing it. The bigger problem is that it doesn’t work.”

“I can see how that might be glitch.” Harley stroked a vine that was creeping up her leg and it wiggled happily. “What does it do?”

Ivy winced. “They grow, but they become giant seedlings and they can’t support their own weight or live like that, so they wither and die, that, and I’ve had one or two that have simply exploded.” She chewed her bottom lip, looking guilty. 

Harley put an arm around Ivy’s waist, squeezing lightly to comfort her. “It’s all right, doll. Is there anythin’ I can help with?”

“I’ve come up with another plan. Rather than trying to force such rapid growth on them, they need defense mechanisms that will prevent anyone from uprooting them. The plants around me could manage that without any help, but as I said, I can’t support so many without being totally drained.” Ivy put her arms around Harley’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to stop by. I may need you to play an integral part of this experiment.” She wiped at the smudged white paint on Harley’s face with a corner of her sleeve and managed to remove the makeup and replace it with dirt.

Harley brightened even further. “Really?”

Ivy smiled down at the vine that was now wrapping around her as well, attention seeking. “I need you to bring me Jonathan Crane.”

*~*~*~*

It was amazing what a few pieces of dry toast and getting that mockery of a beard off his face could do for his humor, Jonathan mused. He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing his injured hand to see how badly the cuts were going to affect his dexterity. Whatever else Wayne was, he was obviously good at looking after himself – and, by extension, others – and his various injuries because the bandage was wrapped tightly enough that he had almost complete maneuverability, but not so tight that it hurt at all.

He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the handcuffs locking his ankles to the desk of the little laboratory that Wayne and…someone else (and damn the Bat for locking him in the safe-box so he couldn’t see who was responsible for bringing him the equipment) had set up for him. But beggars can’t be choosers, and Jonathan was quite aware of exactly how much he was relying on Wayne’s good will. Despite his earlier defiance, he had absolutely no desire to get sent to Arkham. The idea of being drugged to insensibility was almost enough to give him another panic attack. Wayne had given him a very minor sedative however, and it was working wonders on keeping him relaxed.

The stability of knowing he was in a now recognizable place, safe from injury, and guaranteed food and water, as well as warm clothing and a bed, no matter how his fears contested it, was equally doing its part to calm him. The possibility of having a potential cure in front of him was beyond tantalizing. True, he had none of his old notes since they had been seized by the police when they’d finally got around to raiding his apartment.

Well…best not to think of that. Jonathan’s hands clenched in his lap thinking of those pigs pawing through his things, reading his journals, tramping mud over his floors and collecting up his diplomas and books. Damn them, he wanted his books back. The little library he’d accumulated had taken him years to amass and he dreaded to think what they’d done to them. Probably stuck them in an evidence room where they’d rot. They’d probably broken several of the spines in the moving process. Ignorant philistines, they had no idea what he was capable of. What he would be capable of, rather, once his mind was his own again.

“Crane, are you all right?” Wayne put one large hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, sounding concerned.

Jonathan scowled and shook the hand off him, half glad to be free of the straight-jacket for the time being and half feeling like something was crawling up and down his spine without it. “This would go a lot faster if you could get me my notes back.” He poked listlessly at the selection of chemicals in front of him. 

Wayne actually seemed to consider it, miracle of all miracles. “Anything else you think you’ll need?”

“No.”

Wayne sat down on the spare chair that had been brought down. “All right, I’ll bite. Anything else you want?”

Jonathan chewed on his thumbnail for a minute. “I want my books, clothing that fits and…” he sighed pinching the bridge of his nose; going so long without his glasses was giving him a headache. “I’ve got journals, they’re not scientific, they’re just mine, and I want them back.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Wayne picked up a beaker and turned it over in his hands. “I imagine holding them as evidence is a bit futile, considering I’ve got you here. I’ll have a bit of a poke about the police station, but I can’t promise anything.”

The fact that he was experiencing acute gratitude was enough to turn Jonathan’s stomach but he clenched his teeth and forced out a “Thank you.”

Wayne had the audacity to laugh. “No need to sound so pleased about it.” He leaned back, putting the beaker on the table again. “I’m afraid your laboratory privileges are only under supervision, so as long as we’re both sat about down here, you may as well get started. I’ve got nothing else to do until sunset, so you’ve got a good hour or two before I have to lock you up for the night.”

Manfully resisting the urge to say something sarcastic like, ‘oh goody,’ Jonathan began the task of examining and reorganizing the chemicals to suit him. It was somewhat disconcerting working with Wayne sitting there watching him, but he’d had to work under less ideal situations so Jonathan simply grit his teeth a little harder and got on with it.

It was easier than he’d thought to slip back into his old skin as the Doctor, as the researcher who could solve anything he put his brilliant mind to. Once he’d arranged everything to his satisfaction, he began pouring over the details of the antidote that Wayne’s mystery scientist had developed.

“Damn,” he said after a moment, only half paying attention to Wayne. “Can you get me one of your needles?”

A moment later Wayne had one in his hand. “What for?”

Jonathan looked up, still with his mind on the equations and compounds. He held out one arm impatiently. “Well…Don’t just sit there, make yourself useful.”

“You want me to draw your blood?”

“Do you see any other people down here who’ve been subject to a concentrated dose of the serum and who haven’t been given this antidote?” Jonathan asked caustically. 

Wayne, smiling again, did as he was told and Jonathan got back to the task of analyzing the available data as he ran his blood through one of the wonderful machines that Wayne had procured for him. If truth was to be told, he was a little jealous. He’d fought with the Arkham board of directors for over a year to get an older model and in the end he’d been gifted it by Ra’s. Wayne had brought one over like it was nothing. However, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Since Wayne seemed to be happy to provide him with whatever medical devices he needed, he fully intended to take advantage of the situation. 

The printer spat out several sheets of data, so Jonathan stopped playing with it and got back to his analyzing. The data didn’t entirely add up, which meant there had been some sort of mutation. Or he’d programmed the machine wrong. Either was possible. 

He was at the edge of having an idea when Wayne scraped his chair back over the stone, metal screeching, startling Jonathan out of his train of thought.

“Sorry,” Wayne said, not sounding sorry at all. “Time for me to go.”

*~*~*~*

The combined chaos of smoke bombs, stink bombs, little explosives that were a lot like nail bombs, but with glass instead, and the sudden uprising of all the office plants was enough to send the precinct into a panic that the Scarecrow would be proud of. The damage in the floor caused by the explosions gave the plants room to push their roots into the cracks of the pavement and down. It was like watching a time lapse film as the plants hit dirt and grew, roots spreading and branches reaching out, trapping anyone foolish enough to get close. Seeds dropped and flowered and grew until anyone who hadn’t fled, or been able to flee from the bombs was entangled in a miniature forest of vengeful office plants. 

Poison Ivy stepped delicately over a downed officer, arm in arm with Harley; who was carrying her gun, just in case.

“Well, I do think that went swimmingly,” Ivy said, examining the damage.

Harley grinned and hopped up onto one of the thicker roots to walk along it like a balance beam. “Mista J’s gonna be real impressed with us.”

Ivy made a face and examined what was left of the directory. “Oh, him,” she said dismissively. “Forget him, this is our night out.” Deciding that the sign was wholly incomprehensible, Ivy did the sensible thing and followed the vine that was growing up the stairs, waving at her to follow. “We’d best get in and out before Batman shows up.”

“Don’ worry, Ivy. If he pokes his face in here, I’ll take care of him.” Harley cocked the gun and trailed up the stairs after Ivy. “You’ve done your bit, an’ I’ll do mine.”

It didn’t take long to find the evidence room, and less time for the plants to destroy the door. They perused the various bags and boxes. Harley gleefully fed all the information on her and the Joker to the plants crowding about the door, while Ivy emptied box after box onto the ground.

“You’d think they would label things a bit better!” she exclaimed in irritation but was soothed by the caress of leaves against her hair as one of the plants helpfully wrapped around the pertinent box. She flipped open one of the journals and scanned the page.

_…having trouble sleeping again. It’s due entirely to my agitation over what exactly went wrong with this batch of serum. The equations add up perfectly, so I can only assume that the psychosis of the test subject did not mesh well with the drugs. I shall have to try again tomorrow but as of this moment I find myself wondering if another stimulus might be in order to provoke a stronger reaction…_

“I’ve got it.” Ivy shut the journal again, stashing it back in the box. “Let’s get out of here…Harley, leave that card be and help me with this box, it’s heavy.”

The two women made their way towards the exit, where Harley’s motorbike waited out back. It had been a rather flawless plan, and considering they had been expecting Batman, one might even say that it was, in fact, fool proof. Batman dropped through the already damaged roof.

“Fun’s over, girls,” he growled.

Harley let go of her end of the box and fired at Batman. It glanced off his body amour at an angle but it rocked him back enough for her to leap at him. Ivy lost no time stuffing everything that had spilled out of the box back into place and hauling it towards freedom. 

For all that Harley played second fiddle to the Joker she could certainly hold her own in a fight and her roundhouse caught Batman full in the face, though he took it well and used his own momentum to come about and land a fist in her kidneys. Harley dropped to the ground, narrowly dodging the foot that came after her. She rolled to her feet, blocking a series of punches that came at her, only to return the volley. She was faster than Batman and decidedly more agile, and thanks to Ivy’s toxins, she was certainly as strong as he was. However, he was wearing a bulletproof bodysuit and she wasn’t, so her blows had much less impact.

Harley dropped low again and kicked Batman in the knee, sending him into the thick of the plants. They twined around him, holding him back as he struggled to free himself. She giggled, kicked him in the face and blew him a kiss. 

“It’s been fun, an’ I’d love to stick around and play, but y’ know how it is; Places to go, cities to destroy. Maybe some other time, Batman.” She ran off after Ivy, still laughing.

The motorcycle roared outside and the women were off and away. However, without Ivy’s presence, the office plants weakened. Batman wrenched an arm free and used the electric current running through his gloves to burn the plants away. They receded, cringing, and there was a horrible hissing sound as though the plants were speaking. He had just enough time to get away before the police managed to gather enough courage to go back into the building.

*~*~*~*

Jonathan was awoken from his fitful sleep by the sound of the Batmobile returning. His back ached abominably from sleeping on a bare mattress with a straight-jacket on and he felt like his ribs would never recover from having his elbows digging into them so unkindly. He staggered to his feet, balancing on his toes so he could peer out of the window of the safe-box. 

Outside in the cave Batman ripped his mask off, dropping it on the slab. His face was bruising in lurid shades of purple and there was dried blood around his mouth. With each item of armor he removed, more bruises were revealed, one spreading from his chest towards his right shoulder, more layered around his ribs and stomach. His hands were red around the knuckles and there were band marks, as though something had twined around him and held him down. It was a collection to rival even Jonathan’s.

He must have made some small noise or movement because Wayne looked up sharply and the anger and pain in his face caught Jonathan like a blow. He dropped back down into a corner of his cell, chastising himself for being afraid again, but the tremors were starting up and he had seen enough patients in his time to know that Wayne was not in a good state at the moment. 

The locks on the safe-box opened with an overloud clang and Jonathan flinched, hunching further into his corner as the door swung open. Even without the mask, Jonathan got the distinct impression that he was dealing with the Batman side of Bruce Wayne. There was none of his earlier joviality and his mouth was a hard line as he grabbed Jonathan by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

“Why would they want information on you?” he growled.

Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know…I don’t know who.”

Wayne slammed him up against the wall, and though the effect was somewhat lessened by the cushioning of the mattress, it was still intimidating and the grip he had on Jonathan’s arms hurt. “Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. What do they want with you?”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan gasped, doing his best not to struggle. If he didn’t struggle, he wouldn’t provoke the Bat and maybe he wouldn’t get thrown about any more. “I swear.”

His attempts to diffuse the situation through body language failed as Wayne spun him around and threw him against the opposite wall. Jonathan cringed back against the mattress, biting back a whimper of pain as his bound arms took the brunt of his weight. “What was in those notes that a botanist and an anarchist might want?” One hand wrapped around Jonathan’s throat, tightening enough to hurt, enough that he was wheezing but not so much that he couldn’t speak.

Jonathan started fighting then, straining against the confines of his jacket. “Nothing! It’s equations, and case studies, and it’s all entirely based around my fear toxin research.” The hand around his throat tightened. “God, please, I don’t know.” 

For the first time since he’d recovered his mind from the Scarecrow, Jonathan desperately wanted him to take over. He didn’t want to be the one struggling to breathe, trapped and afraid. Perhaps the Scarecrow had a stronger sense of a losing battle or some sadistic glee in watching Jonathan fail to defend himself, because even though he was more afraid than he’d been in days, he was on his own.

Wayne let go of his throat in favor of hitting him in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor, vision clouding over with light and static as the walls burst into bright colors, swirling nauseatingly. Jonathan tried to crawl out of the way but there was no where for him to go and with his arms bound he didn’t get very far anyway. He swallowed blood and looked up at Wayne, looming over him as the ache set into his face. It was when Wayne dragged him to his feet and pushed him up against the wall again that the unthinkable happened; the fear twisted in on itself and the pain sparking in his head and ribs trailed down into his gut and that dark thread of arousal uncoiled. The adrenaline in his veins and the rapidly rising hysteria caught him up in the tangled mess of his emotions. He lunged forward, smashing their mouths together in a painful press of teeth against bruised lips.

For one moment Wayne froze and then he responded in kind, shoving Jonathan hard against the wall, hands tangled in Jonathan’s hair, but this time the needles of pain served to feed the growing pressure in his gut. There was a fine line between pain and pleasure and it seemed as though that line had twisted itself around in Jonathan’s head so there was no difference, there was only the rawness of his nerve endings. 

He ground his hips against Wayne’s hissing in pleasure when Wayne tightened his grip on Jonathan’s hair, pulling his head back sharply. Wayne let go then, hands going to his own armored suit, pulling at the Kevlar straps and buckles, mouth still savaging Jonathan’s lips. It seemed to take an age, one muscled thigh pressing between Jonathan’s, teeth scoring bloody trails down Jonathan’s neck and all he could do was struggle against the straps holding him bound, press against Wayne until his jeans hurt, which only made him press harder. The batsuit peeled away, leaving Wayne sweat damp in a wifebeater and skin tight boxer shorts.

He pushed Jonathan back down onto the floor so his wrists dug into the soft skin of his biceps, chin pressed hard into the mattress. Jonathan pulled his knees up under him, arching his back painfully, chest against the floor. Rough hands caught hold of the overlarge jeans and dragged them down over his hips so they tangled around his knees like some perverted second straight-jacket. They were both panting harshly as Wayne knelt down behind Jonathan, pushing his own shorts down, gripping Jonathan’s hips hard enough that his fingernails, short as they were, broke the skin. There was only sweat between them to ease the way but Wayne was too angry to care and Jonathan shoved back into the burn, feeling his insides twist in this new sick pleasure. Then Wayne let go of his hips, one hand catching hold of the straight-jacket straps, holding him still and the other curled around Jonathan’s throat.

Jonathan, trapped between the floor and the heavy press of Wayne’s body, could only let the harsh slam of Wayne’s hips against his shove him hard into Wayne’s steadily tightening grip. He couldn’t breathe, could only gasp for breath, shuddering in something between agony and ecstasy, and the little sounds that forced themselves past the grip on his throat weren’t whimpers, they were a silenced litany of snarled curses, things he would never say were he in his right mind. But he wasn’t anywhere near there, and Wayne’s teeth on the back of his neck, digging in through the shield of his hair, combined with the inability to even gasp past Wayne’s stranglehold was enough to push him over the edge, hips pressing back hard against Wayne as he shuddered one last time, legs giving out under him.

Wayne let go of his throat before Jonathan passed out and pulled away, dragging Jonathan after him. Sprawled out on the floor, shoulders bruising against Wayne’s knees, Jonathan didn’t need any instruction. Neither of them seemed to be inclined towards talking at any rate. Jonathan opened his mouth and sucked the head of Wayne’s erection into his mouth. The hands in his hair quickly removed any lingering illusion of control he may have had. He choked, eyes watering, bloody saliva seeping out of the side of his mouth as Wayne took his mouth as harshly as he’d taken his body. It didn’t last very long and Jonathan swallowed down Wayne’s bitter release along with his own bile and blood.

He lay still, panting for air, as Wayne staggered to his feet.

Wayne shook his head in a sort of denial, hands clumsy as he pulled up his shorts, nearly tripping over the batsuit. He picked it up and fled, leaving the door to the safe-box open and Jonathan lying on the floor, jeans still tangled around his knees.

Jonathan’s mania began to subside and the pain began to register as what it was. He groaned softly, trying to roll into a sitting position to ease the pressure on his ribs, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate and the ache inside him spiked into a sharp pain. 

Wayne came back a moment later, grim and silent, once again composed. He knelt down next to Jonathan and rolled him onto his back, cleaning his face, thighs, and the smear of semen on the straight-jacket with a damp cloth before carefully easing the jeans back up over Jonathan’s hips. He helped him up into a sitting position. They stared at each other for a moment but the tension was broken as Wayne pushed a strand of hair out of Jonathan’s eyes.

“I apologize,” he said finally, standing up and leaving the safe-box, this time locking it behind him.

Jonathan tried to get to his feet and nearly fell over in his anger. “Don’t you dare!” His voice came out as a hoarse rasp though he was shouting. “Don’t you dare pity me! Damn you, you do not get to be the martyr.”

His only reply was the clang and clatter of the elevator rising.


	6. Lust and Lunacy

“You look terrible,” Bruce said caustically.

It was true. The face staring back at him was swollen and an unpleasant shade of violet on one side, bloodshot eyes sat at half-mast and there was a haunted look there that hadn’t been present the day before. 

He opened the medicine cabinet so he wouldn’t have to look at his reflection in the mirror anymore.

The worst of it was, he couldn’t even tend to his own injuries without thinking of the damage he had inflicted on Crane only…God, only hours ago. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to see Crane; furious, and broken, and beautiful. Of all the stupid things he could have done, dry-fucking Crane into the mattress of the safe-box was probably right up there with waltzing into the Narrows and announcing that Batman was Bruce Wayne. On top of that, he didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse. He felt guilty for not feeling guilty, but other than that, he couldn’t think about Crane without a sharp twist of lust knotting his guts. He liked the way Crane’s wrists had grated under his hands, how he had panted for air and the panicked workings of his throat, how wide his eyes had gone and how soft his mouth had been. He liked the way Crane hurt, and the way he bruised.

The problem, Bruce decided, wasn’t that he had fucked Crane. The problem was that he had beaten Crane first, that he had enjoyed the fact he was hurting Crane, and that he wanted to do it again, and soon.

Well, perhaps he did feel a little guilty. The combination of anguish and rage on Crane’s face as Bruce had walked away didn’t sit quite right with him. But who had kissed whom first? He certainly didn’t remember any real protests from Crane – and Christ but that man had a mouth on him in more ways than one – but he was supposed to be the paragon of justice and virtue, not another madman in a mask. 

Bruce groaned and slammed the cabinet shut. It was no good sitting and stewing in pseudo-guilt, Bruce decided; he was just going to have to go and confront Crane.

It was a good idea in theory, but when he’d made his way down into the Batcave and unbolted the safe-box Bruce came face to face with what might have been the perfect example as to why theory and practice were two very different things.

As bad as Bruce looked, Crane was worse. His face was just as swollen as Bruce’s and the circles under his eyes were so dark they matched the color of the bruise-prints ringing his neck. His lips had been savaged raw and the blood was still bright and fresh, staining his teeth and chin. The walls of the safe-box were smeared with the blood in deliberate, but seemingly meaningless, patterns that might have been writing, but Bruce really couldn’t tell. Crane’s face was pale and sickly looking under the bright lights of the Batcave and he was shaking hard enough that his teeth were chattering from the force of his tremors. 

Crane looked up and his eyes were black, the thin ring of blue nearly swallowed by the pupil. There was no comprehension in his expression.

Bitten lips moved in soundless words. It took a moment for Bruce to realize that Crane’s throat was working, there was just no sound coming out and that Crane could have been screaming the entire night through and he wouldn’t have been able to hear it up in the trailer.

He raked a hand through his hair, knowing that it was going to take twice as much effort to gel the damn thing back but discovering he didn’t actually care all that much. Bruce may not have felt properly guilty about having sex with Crane, but leaving the man to his demons seemed unnecessarily cruel. Some sedation would have eased the symptoms, and if not prevented the attack, then at least knocked Crane out long enough that he wouldn’t have to suffer through it in his waking hours.

“Jonathan?”

Crane flinched away, biting down sharply on his lip. Bruce watched in morbid fascination as Crane ran his tongue over his mouth, only to lean closer to the wall and paint another symbol on the fabric using the collected blood. The soft, wet sounds Crane was making shouldn’t have been erotic but, even as Bruce turned away to prep a sedative, he could feel himself hardening in his jeans. 

Maybe Crane was right, maybe he did need a psychiatrist if that was the sort of thing that was turning him on. He hadn’t slept with one of the girls he so frequently took out for almost a month now. It wasn’t that he had no interest in sex anymore; it was just that in between the violence and brutality of being Batman and the vapidity of being Bruce Wayne he had no interest in sex with any of those girls. Crane knew about both parts of him, and seemingly despised them both equally. There was no flattery, no dissembling. There wasn’t even any semblance of niceness between them and perhaps that was what appealed. Though, Bruce mused, holding Crane still and jabbing the needle into his neck, that didn’t really explain why all he really wanted to do was lick the blood off of Crane’s lips and have him again, up against his scribblings.

He stopped the introspection just in time to witness the accusatory look in Crane’s eyes before Crane toppled over, out cold.

Perhaps that was why he didn’t feel guilty. There was nothing nice in Crane to feel bad about ruining. He couldn’t break something that was already broken, he could only take it apart more; and what did that matter? According to Rachel, Crane had been a sick son-of-a-bitch long before he’d been gassed.

Bruce picked Crane up, one arm under his knees, the other cradling his shoulders. He weighed about the same as Rachel, perhaps a little less, and that struck Bruce as being inherently sad. It was barely an effort to bring him up the elevator and around to the trailer, though it should have felt like something dangerous and risky, considering that he was bringing Crane out of Batman’s world and out into where Bruce’s secret could be discovered. Not that Crane was in any fit state to be doing much of anything, never mind running away, and besides, Crime might never sleep or rest, but builders did, and since it was Sunday, the lot was deserted.

He dropped Crane on the little foldout bed and undressed him, straightjacket over the back of a chair, jeans tossed into the wash-basket. Bruce was about to throw the polo shirt after the jeans when he found the twist of metal from Crane’s glasses in the pocket. For a moment he considered just throwing it away, but if Crane had gone to so much effort to hold onto it, through everything, it didn’t seem to be his place to finish the job. Instead, he set it on the counter by the sink and then tossed the shirt into the wash, before leaving Crane on the bed so he could turn on the shower.

The shower stall wasn’t very big; Bruce could just about fit in it so long as he didn’t try and do anything fancy, like stick his elbows out while he was washing his hair. When he stripped himself and dragged Crane into the shower, it was a tight enough squeeze that he didn’t really have to hold Crane up at all. There was simply no space for him to slump over. 

He’d managed to wash and – Hell, why not? – condition Crane’s hair when Crane started to struggle in his arms. Crane’s head tipped forward and then slowly rose, in little nods and dips, as though it was too heavy for his neck. His shoulders twitched and he floundered for a moment, legs boneless underneath him, trying to stand of his own volition and not from the press of Bruce’s body pushing him against the wall of the shower stall.

“What are you doing?” Crane’s voice was barely a cracked whisper and it was slurred from the drugs, but he was awake, against all odds.

Bruce tightened his grip around Crane’s chest, but continued soaping him down. He thought about replying to the question, and then decided that answering in earnest could easily be misconstrued as sarcasm and lying sarcastically would only confuse Crane further. So instead he simply grunted non-committally.

Crane coughed, spat out blood-tinted water and let his forehead rest against the tiles. “Very eloquent,” he rasped.

“You should save your voice,” Bruce said, turning them about so the water spray rinsed the suds off of Crane. The sliding door was unpleasantly cold and clammy against his back. “How’s the…” he flapped one hand expressively.

Crane’s shoulders hunched up. “The insanity, the bruises or the part where it hurts to stand?”

Bruce laughed shortly. Not because it was funny, per se, but because he could count the bumps in Crane’s spine under mottled bruised purple and sickly white skin, he hated the snide way Crane talked to him, there was something wholly strange about having to bathe a grown man as though he were a child and still, he wanted to lean forward and trace the abrasions from the straight-jacket with his teeth, wanted to dig his fingers into the curve of Crane’s hipbones and lay down another set of bruises. He shifted back as far as he could so that he wouldn’t have his growing erection pressed up against Crane’s appealingly soft and somewhat soapy skin.

This time Crane squirmed in his grasp, twisting so they were face to face and his eyes had gone back to their usual startling shade of blue. He made a face as Bruce’s hands skimmed over the raw patches of skin on his back but pressed in, standing on his toes to bring them closer to eye to eye. One hand, fingers shaking, came up to brush across the bruising on Bruce’s face and down across his lips, and throat, and chest, as Bruce’s erection slid against the hollow of Crane’s hipbone.

Bruce fully expected him to say something sarcastic; instead Crane nodded slightly, as though some criterion had been fulfilled. Then Crane hooked one arm around Bruce’s neck and tugged slightly, pulling him down into a kiss. From what Bruce could feel, Crane was barely half hard and it wasn’t the most rousing endorsement of enthusiasm that Bruce had ever experienced but Crane’s mouth was soft under his and Crane was making little noises that were half pain from the pressure on his split lips and half pleasure when Bruce slid one hand between them to curl around Crane’s slowly hardening erection. His other hand curved about the ladder of Crane’s ribs, still partly holding him up.

Bruce found he didn’t have the same rage as he did the first time and thought, perhaps, Crane had bled out all the anger all over the walls of the safe-box in symbols and scribblings. He still wanted Crane to hurt, but that was only because he looked so…so pretty when he was in pain. Mostly though, he just wanted to fuck Crane and he wasn’t overly particular about the details.

Crane shifted his hips, back and forth, just enough that the slippery skin of his hip rubbed against Bruce’s erection with maddeningly little friction. Bruce traded his hold around Crane’s waist for a slightly less secure one in his hair, pressing Crane back against the shower wall so he didn’t fall, pulling his head back to deepen the kiss.

Despite the hand in his hair, Crane still managed to twist his face away to say roughly; “At least do me this courtesy, Wayne.” He reached to the side, and handed Bruce the liquid soap.

Bruce forced him back into the kiss. “Courtesy?” he sneered, pressed hard against Crane from mouth to hip and Crane let out a breathy moan that defied his earlier acidity. “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”

“Yes, well, when one is getting off on pain, that will happen,” Crane said snidely. “Since I’m not right now, if you want to be a gentleman, you’ll use something. Otherwise, don’t expect me to get anything out of this other than new bruises.”

Bruce wasn’t sure if it was curiosity or cruelty that motivated him, but he slid a finger into Crane to test that theory. He was barely in to the first knuckle but Crane made a sound like a sob and collapsed forwards, his knees going out from under him. Ragged fingernails dug into Bruce’s chest and he wasn’t sure if it was just water from the shower, or if Crane’s eyes were watering from the pain. He withdrew, and even that didn’t make him feel guilty until he felt Crane’s lips moving against his skin and realized Crane was silently repeating, “Please don’t,” with each shuddering breath he took. Bruce tipped Crane’s face up and kissed him gently. Crane’s eyes widened in surprise and he didn’t relax at all, nails digging in harder.

“It’s all right,” Bruce said softly. “I’m not that far gone yet.”

Crane slowly unhooked his nails from Bruce’s skin. “I set you on fire.” It sounded more like a reminder than anything else and Bruce wasn’t sure who he was trying to remind.

Bruce tipped a generous amount of soap over his hand and eased his finger slowly back inside Crane. This time Crane shuddered and the soft sounds he made were of pleasure. Bruce’s mouth curved into a smile against Crane’s throat. “I’m not you,” he said, and bit down lightly over the ring of bruises.

When Crane arched up onto his toes, one leg trying to come up to hook about Bruce’s waist, they discovered the problem of simple mechanics versus space. It was clumsy and awkward because Crane was too short to get his leg up over Bruce’s hip and too short to just turn around for Bruce to have him that way. The caravan simply wasn’t sturdy enough to support Crane’s weight if Bruce lifted him up against the wall. They slid together for a moment, as the water around them slowly turned colder. Finally Bruce turned the water off, opened the bathroom door and just lifted Crane up. Crane’s arms wrapped around his neck and his legs around Bruce’s waist as Bruce carried him out to the pull out bed and dropped them both down on it.

The sheets tangled and stuck to Crane’s wet limbs but seeing him sprawled out on the bed, eyelashes half obscuring the blue of his eyes, bruises like a collar and cuffs, was more than enough motivation for Bruce to ignore the cold air making them both shiver. 

Bruce leaned over, pinning Crane’s wrists to the bed with one hand, and bent one of Crane’s legs up so his knee came close to touching his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the fragile anklebones and then nipped lightly at the same spot. 

“I’m not that acrobatic,” Crane said, turning his face to one side, apparently staring out the window.

Bruce quickly considered the amount that Crane would have to bend if he put his shoulder in the crook of Crane’s knee and amended his plan. He let go and took one of the pillows from the head of the bed. Crane lifted his hips enough for Bruce to slide it under.

“It would be easier if I just rolled over.” This time Crane didn’t sound so sure of himself but he curled his leg up again obligingly. 

“It would be easier if you would look at me,” Bruce countered, shifting so Crane’s heel fit into the curve of his spine. 

He waited until Crane finally looked away from the window and was surprised to see a large amount of trepidation in his expression. Bruce leaned forwards and kissed him, reaching into the drawer by the bed to find the gel he used on his bruises. He eased his fingers back into Crane, the other hand stroking over Crane’s hair, soothing him. The gel was cold on his erection, but he pushed slowly, carefully into Crane and Crane was warm and tight and it didn’t matter for more than a moment.

Crane’s eyes went wide and he took several deep breaths through his nose, and then shifted slightly under Bruce and his mouth went slack. “Oh Christ,” he muttered, head tipping back. “Do that again.”

Bruce obliged, pulling slightly out and then pressing forwards again. It was maddeningly slow, when all he really wanted to do was hold Crane down and nail him through the mattress, but the twinges of instinct in his gut made him careful. He was rewarded when Crane’s lips curved into a perfect ‘O’ and he tightened around Bruce. The sound he made was too soft and too high to be anything other than a whimper.

“Please…” Crane tugged at Bruce’s hair, trying to pull him down into a kiss. “Please…I don’t…” He trailed off into another breathless moan.

It felt like sadism tied to a strange mixture of pity and kindness that curled Bruce’s mouth up into a smile. “How long has it been?” he asked, though his voice was a little ragged about the edges. “When’s the last time someone touched you as though they cared about how you felt?”

Crane’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even try it,” he hissed. “I’ve spent most of my life learning how to mind-fuck better men than you.”

Bruce kept his pace, drawing another whimper out of Crane. “How long?” he asked again, shifting his weight so he could wrap one hand around Crane’s erection and stroke him in time with his thrusts. “I don’t think you can remember.”

This time Crane bent almost in half to savage Bruce’s mouth. Crane fell back, gasping; sweat starting to bead around his hairline. “When’s the last time you cared about the person you were touching?” he retorted. “This isn’t a tea-party, either we can have sex or we can chat about our psychoses, not both.”

That was enough of an answer to satisfy Bruce but he didn’t speed up the movement of his hips until Crane was trembling and boneless in his arms. He didn’t beg, Bruce never expected him to, but he pleaded in soft moans and whimpers, head tipped back so the bruises on his neck were stretched over the ridge of his throat, fingers threaded loosely in Bruce’s hair and clenched in the bedsheets.

Crane was wrong, Bruce decided, mouthing over the rabbit-fast pulse under Crane’s bruises. He did care about Crane and how he felt, but not in the way that Crane meant. He cared if Crane was happy, or hurting, or angry because he wanted to be the one making him feel that way. Perhaps it was a perverse desire to pull the mental and emotional strings of the Scarecrow, or perhaps it was just perversity, but he liked being able to make Crane shudder, and cry out, and come because he touched him softly and fucked him carefully, in exactly the same way he had enjoyed making Crane bleed, and hurt, and like it, the night before.

It was the wounded pride and obviously brittle emotional state on Crane’s face that made Bruce come in the end.

He collapsed to the side, pulling out as carefully as he had eased in, and grinned into the sweat-damp curve of Crane’s throat. “How long?”

Crane shut his eyes. “I don’t remember and it’s your delusion if you imagine that I even care.” It could have been sweat beading in his eyelashes and it could have been an effect of the sedation making his voice unsteady and thick about the edges. He shoved at Bruce until Bruce let go and then slid out from between the sheets with a wince. Crane disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and Bruce heard the shower running again.

Bruce cleaned himself off with a corner of the sheets, feeling far too lazy to consider moving so far as the other side of the bed. Crane came back out of the bathroom and pulled on the dressing gown that was hanging conveniently on a nearby peg. It was far too large for him but he sighed happily and shrugged it up around his ears, almost vanishing under the fabric.

“What are you doing?” Bruce propped himself up on one elbow, watching as Crane started poking about the caravan.

“Looking for a clean pair of pants,” was the succinct reply.

Bruce laid back, hands behind his head. “The door opposite the shower is a closet.” Crane limped over to the closet and began rifling through Bruce’s clothing, his grimace making it clear that everything was going to be ill-fitting as the dressing gown. “I can do that later,” Bruce said. “Christ, you need a rest more than I do and I’ve no intention of getting out of bed for at least another half hour.”

Crane gave him a nasty look. “Do you think your butler would appreciate walking in to find me naked in your bed? Do you think I want to spend another night so terrified that I’d rather die than live through it again? Do you think, for one moment, that this is anything more than getting a ridiculous fixation out of my system?”

“Fixation?”

Crane sighed. “I used to wonder what it would be like to bed Bruce Wayne.”

To bed? Did anyone really say that anymore, Bruce wondered. “Really? So what’s the verdict, doctor?” Bruce grinned, trying not to look as smug as he felt. He knew he was missing the point, but he was loathe to get up and Crane looked like he needed to lie down and sleep before he fell down and passed out.

Crane pulled out a plain white shirt and took off the dressing gown so he could pull it on. It hung down to the tops of his thighs and was far too large about the shoulders. He buttoned it anyway and then sat, somewhat gingerly, on the edge of the bed. “It’s irrelevant,” he said finally. “That person doesn’t exist.” Crane ran his hands through his hair, trying to finger-comb it into submission.

Bruce thought of Rachel for a moment and that shirt so sheer he could see her nipples through it. He’d wanted to wrap his coat around her, because she was Rachel, and he didn’t want to think of her that way. She was the living reminder of his childhood, the good and the bad, and in his mind she was on the same pedestal as his mother. She had been looking for Bruce Wayne as well, and, like Crane, hadn’t found him.

“Well let me know if you come across him.” Bruce sat up and hooked one arm around Crane’s stomach, pulling him back under the sheets. “I know someone who’s looking for him.”

Crane made small complaining noises for a moment, and then curled up so his head rested in the crook of Bruce’s shoulder, muttering under his breath. It only took a minute before his eyelids drooped shut and his breathing evened out. Bruce allowed himself the luxury of lying in bed, running his fingers through Crane’s hair, for another five minutes and then slid out from under Crane, tucking the sheet up over him. He opened one of the windows to air the caravan out and pulled on slacks and a t-shirt. Moving as quietly as possible, so as not to wake Crane, he set about making them some breakfast. 

Contrary to popular belief, Bruce was perfectly capable of feeding himself. He’d survived just fine on his own without starving to death, and while that was slightly more hand to mouth, he was still able to scramble a few eggs and put bread in the toaster.

He glanced over his shoulder at where Crane had curled up into a tight ball, one arm curving up over his head as though to protect himself from any possible angle. With his mouth half open and his face slack Crane didn’t look any older or any younger, he just looked more real somehow. Like there was a person under all the snide tones and fear; someone that, in another life, Bruce might have got along with, though that did seem to be pushing it a little far. He realized he had no idea if Crane even ate eggs or if he was some kind of vegan. Idly, Bruce wondered what Crane’s favorite color was, what he liked to do when he wasn’t working, what kind of car he drove…

It was strange to know so much about another person, and still know nothing at all, he decided.

*~*~*~*

“If you were criminally insane, running from the Bat and homeless,” Ivy said thoughtfully, as she flicked through Crane’s journals, “where would you go?”

Harley blinked up at her, blonde hair in little pigtails, and jeans and a shirt covered in mulch as she tried to replant a giant poppy that didn’t want to be moved. “Is that a trick question?” She slapped down a leaf, wrestled the plant to the ground and then stuck it into its new home.

Ivy smiled, slightly self-depreciatingly. “Sorry, darling, I was talking about the Scarecrow. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him for two weeks and I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll have any better luck. I’ve read as much of his writing as I can stand and I have no idea how his mind works.” She tossed the book at Harley. “You’re the psychiatrist, you tell me.”

Harley stepped away from the last ditch attempt of the poppy to get free, deftly jumped over a series of roots and plopped down next to Ivy. She flipped the journal open randomly and began to read aloud. “…disgusting pig that he is I found it highly diverting that he was afraid of insects, of all things. I suppose that explains why he refused to deal with the roach problem until I found a way to make them deal with him. It does not, however, explain why he refused to call an exterminator. The man who came to fix the problem this afternoon said he had never seen an infestation get so out of hand in an area like this. I kept myself from regaling him with my tired refrain of all the ills of the building.” She flipped the page, a little bewildered. “Is he talking about-”

“He injected his landlord with an early version of the toxin because the man refused to deal with an apparently godawful cockroach situation in the apartment block where Doctor Crane was living.” Ivy examined her nails, sounding bored. “I’ve already read that bit. The man clawed his own skin off, convinced he was covered in bugs. Crane goes into great detail. He’s very longwinded.”

Harley laughed a little at that. “Yeah well, he used to be a professor, and ain’t they all?” She skipped ahead in the book; “…cold and tired but the heating is on the fritz again and I tried to fix it but now the pipe is leaking as well. It is times like this when I catch myself wishing I had someone I could call and ask to stay with, which is nonsense, of course.” Harley shut the book. “I feel bad,” she said. “This isn’t a medical book, this is his life, and it’s kind of a sad one at that. Everyone knew, y’ know, an’ no one could remember if he was alone because he wanted to be, or if we’d left him out. I figured then, and seein’ this I’d lay odds on it, that Doctor Crane didn’t have a social life unless the Arkham board forced him to go to functions, he lived for his work. Heck, I know he lived in the Narrows so he’d be closer to the asylum. If I had to start looking for him, that’s where I’d start.”

Ivy groaned and lay back, putting one arm over her eyes. “He wouldn’t go back to his apartment, that’s the first place the police would look for him.”

“’Course it is, an’ that’s why he’ll be there now. The police have come and gone but he’ll want to pick up whatever he can. He’ll be looking for these journals, clothing maybe…somewhere to sleep. You heard what he wrote; he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

*~*~*~*

Jonathan sat up, panting, clutching at his chest until his nails felt like they would break the skin even through his shirt, just to try and stop his heart from clawing its way out of his ribcage. He stared blindly around him, until his breathing slowly came under his control and everything swum back into focus as Wayne stepped into his line of vision.

“Eggs?” Wayne asked, as though Jonathan wasn’t choking to death on his heartbeat. He waited, not helping, but not pressing the matter either, just waiting for Jonathan to calm himself.

Finally he was able to breathe without feeling as though he might have a heart-attack, though there was still a feeling in the pit of his stomach that imminent doom was approaching. Jonathan couldn’t remember what dream he’d been having but from the cold sweat drying on his skin, he imagined it hadn’t been very good. “I beg your pardon?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and noticed that Wayne had rebandaged his hand while he was sleeping. His hands were shaking.

Wayne sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t know if you ate eggs or not, but I’ve scrambled a few and there’s toast and orange juice if you want some breakfast.” He set a tray in front of Jonathan then caught hold of Jonathan’s wrist and took his pulse. “You eat eggs right? Because you need the nutrients.” 

“I eat eggs.” Jonathan held onto the fork that Wayne put into his hand but found he could only stare at the meal before him. It looked so colorful and it smelt wonderful but his stomach was churning and it hurt to sit. For some horrible reason he felt ungrateful for not just digging right in. Jonathan picked up the glass, figuring the orange-juice would be the easiest to stomach and almost dropped it again, because he couldn’t get his fingers to grip properly and his hands were still shaking as though they would shake themselves right off his wrists.

Wayne steadied the glass without comment. “Bad dream?”

Jonathan sipped at the juice then set it down before he let it slip again. “I suppose so, I can’t recall.”

“Understandable.” Wayne lay back next to Jonathan, hands behind his head and grinned. “I’m supposed to go make an appearance at the office today. I called in and, officially, I was injured rock-climbing and will be taking a few days off to recover. Unofficially everyone will assume I’m hungover and lazy.”

It was too easy an opening to ignore so Jonathan sighed, nibbled on his toast, and asked, “So what will you actually be doing?”

Wayne’s grin took on a wolfish edge. “You, I imagine.”

Jonathan shuddered, wrapping his arms around his middle, feeling as though he had no skin at all and everything Wayne said was brushing right against his nerve endings. “I need to work on the cure,” he said softly. “I can’t live like this.”

Even that little revelation seemed to do nothing to dampen Wayne’s good mood. “You’ll figure something out,” he sounded confident. “I’d laid odds on you dying, but it looks as though I’m going to have to figure out what to do with you once this is all over after all. Besides, you can’t think if you starve yourself to death, so eat up.”

Slowly, Jonathan tightened his grip around his glass until he was sure he wouldn’t drop it. “Bruce.” He dropped his gaze, peering through his lashes in what he hoped was an even mildly seductive way. “Kiss me.” Wayne started to sit up, rolling his eyes a little, but Jonathan stopped him with a finger in the middle of Wayne’s chest. Impressively, he stayed halfway up without looking strained. “Pretend you care.”

One of Wayne’s hands came up to brush gently over the purple and yellow staining Jonathan’s cheek while the other crept under the sheet to rest just above his knee. He cupped the back of Jonathan’s head and leaned in. Either Wayne was an incredible liar and had missed his calling as an actor, or he was far too used to seducing women for Jonathan’s tastes considering they hadn’t used protection, but he brushed his lips over Jonathan’s then pressed in lightly and Jonathan almost could have believed it. It hurt a little, but not in quite the same way or quite as much as Wayne’s head must have when Jonathan smashed the glass of juice over Wayne’s temple. It splintered between his hand and Wayne’s skull, and Jonathan couldn’t tell where all the blood was coming from but his hand stung and ached as he scrambled away. Wayne fell backwards, unbalanced, clutching at the side of his head. 

Jonathan half crawled, half fell out of the bed, the sheet tangling and dragging after him, and seized the toaster from the kitchenette counter bringing it around as hard as he could. The cord slowed him down before it ripped out of the wall but the heavy metal box caught Wayne square in the face, knocking him back again from where he had been trying to get up. Jonathan gritted his teeth and brought it down a second time. Wayne stopped trying to move then. Blood trickled from his head, dripping to stain the sheets. 

“Shit.” Jonathan dropped the toaster and held his lacerated hand to his chest. He put the fingers of his other hand – now shaking even worse – over Wayne’s pulse and couldn’t feel it through the bandages. He rested his ear over Wayne’s chest and heard his heartbeat thudding away steadily and Wayne’s ribcage rose and fell easily.

Jonathan sobbed out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and then grabbed the dishcloth and wrapped it around his hand as a makeshift bandage. There were sweatpants laid out over the back of a chair so he pulled them on along with the socks and shoes that were sitting on the seat. The shoes were too big so he kicked them off again and started going through drawers and over the countertops. Finally, Jonathan scrabbled through the pockets of Bruce’s coat hanging up on a peg and came up with a wallet fat with credit cards, over six hundred dollars in cash, and keys with a ring that matched the logo on the caravan. Dropping them onto the countertop, Jonathan gave Wayne an appraising look.

“Sorry Batman,” he said, taking hold of Wayne’s ankles and dragging him off the bed, knocking his head against the floor this time. 

Slowly and painfully Jonathan pulled Wayne across the caravan, and out the door. Wayne landed heavily on the wet ground but he didn’t so much as groan so Jonathan resumed his slow progress across to the rather obviously hidden elevator down to the Batcave. 

He was short of breath and his hand had bled enough to soak through the dishcloth and make his grip slippery and unsteady by the time he dragged Wayne into the elevator and then they were going down fast enough to make Jonathan cling to the grating of the cage and shut his eyes until it was over. He’d sweated through the shirt and it clung to his back like his hair was sticking to his face and neck.

After a moment’s deliberation, and a pause to catch his breath and readjust the dishcloth, it seemed like the only really fitting place to leave Wayne was in the very safe-box he had built. It might have been poetic justice, or irony of some kind, but Jonathan decided that since it had locks and would keep him contained but Alfred would be able to find him without too much searching, it was perfect. There was nothing he could do about the glass in Wayne’s head or the severe concussion he was going to have, but at least he was still breathing, so thank heaven for small mercies. He’d wanted to kill Batman, he still wanted to kill Batman, but Bruce Wayne – though an insufferable prick – hadn’t thrown him in Arkham and left him to the tender mercies of the justice system. Wayne might have been using him but Jonathan just couldn’t bring himself to find something heavy and keep bringing it down on Wayne’s skull until he stopped breathing. A favor for a favor, they were even now, so maybe next time he would kill the Bat.

He hauled Wayne into the safe-box and then almost fell over when he looked at the walls. The blood had dried to a dull brown and was flaking a little, but his work was unmistakable. Smeared to the point of being almost unreadable was a poem about crows complete with illustrations, a record of his hallucinations and the formulae for several versions of a possible antidote. 

“Jonathan you unimaginable genius,” he breathed. “That’s it. That’s _it_.” He scanned the walls, chewing the cracks back into his lips, ignoring the blood from his hand and the pain cramping his insides. 

He locked Wayne into the safe-box and went over to one of the crates on wheels, throwing the weapons onto the ground, before hauling the lab equipment into place. He couldn’t fit in one or two of the larger medical books and still keep his favorite machine, but if he didn’t need books when he was mad, then he wasn’t going to need them when he was sane, so he left them along with a little note reading: ‘At least I didn’t set you on fire.’ 

Then he wheeled the crate to the elevator, across the grass and into the caravan. Next to the keys sat his little twist of wire. Jonathan stood for a moment, turning it over in his hands. He had no shoes, no glasses, both his hands were lacerated and it felt like his thighs were getting sticky with blood. Jonathan dropped the wire into his pocket and gave a mental shrug. He’d driven under worse conditions.

“Are you insane?” he said out loud, to himself, as he picked up the keys and climbed into the driver’s seat of the caravan. “I’ve driven under worse conditions? No you haven’t.” 

He shook his head and started the ignition. “I am not going to talk to myself.” 

Jonathan grit his teeth and adjusted the seat and mirrors, ignoring the discomfort he was feeling at sitting. “You can’t see properly, you can’t sit…good idea Jonny, go for a drive.”

“Jonathan,” he told himself firmly, “shut up.” He put his foot on the gas, spun the wheel and headed off away from Wayne Manor.

*~*~*~*

They were a good distance from the Narrows and of all the pieces of bad luck it was rush hour and Gotham was trundling along at a gridlock. As adept at maneuvering through traffic on her bike as Harley was, Ivy still valued her life a little more than that. The second fastest way to the Narrows – other than straight there – was actually to leave the city, go around it and re-enter just before the Narrows. It avoided the business district and most of the major roads, all of them if they detoured a little more, and considering Gotham’s traffic hour, would probably cut their driving time in half. 

Of course, that plan had hinged on Harley not getting lost.

“I’m more of a city girl,” she said in self-defense, turning right at a fork. Harley decided not to mention that she had no idea if right was the direction that they were supposed to be going in, or if they had been driving in circles. “Besides, working at Arkham, working with Mista J, I never had any reason to be poking about outside Gotham.”

Ivy groaned in frustration. “Well just pull over then at a road sign and we’ll try to figure it out from there.”

It sounded like a good plan, better then Harley’s had been (Her plan consisted of driving about until they found where they were going and hoping they didn’t run out of gas) and Harley was so busy watching out for road signs that she almost didn’t see the caravan pulling up behind them, going far too fast for such a narrow, winding road. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of Ivy looking absolutely terrified. 

“Jerk!” she shouted. “Slow down!” Harley sped up to avoid being slammed into from behind. She felt Ivy twist about to look at the driver who seemed determined to run them over.

“He’s not…” Ivy’s fingers dug into Harley’s sides. “Get off the road, Harley. I don’t think he’s conscious.”

Harley grinned happily and sped up a little more. “Hold on,” she warned and jumped the bike up onto the stone wall bracketing the road. They drove along there at breakneck speeds before Harley swerved sharply to the left, sending the bike jolting off the wall and rattling over the grass and out of harm’s way before she skidded to an abrupt stop.

They watched as the caravan increased speed, weaving from side to side before it fishtailed wildly and hit the wall, going into a spin, front and rear of the caravan smashing against the stone, breaking off pieces of metal. Finally it came to a slow stop, most of the front ripped away and the back looking as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Harley started up the bike again and drove over to the wall before parking it and dismounting. Ivy didn’t say anything, though she was looking a little greener than usual and she got off the bike in record time.

The driver was slumped against the window, eyes open, blood seeping out of his mouth. His hands were still locked around the wheel, white knuckled. 

“I know him,” Harley said thoughtfully. “But it’s hard to tell with his face messed up like that.”

Ivy snorted disdainfully. “Does it matter?” she asked. “He’s dead; we’re alive…Though perhaps he has a map we could use.”

Harley stared at the man and then nearly jumped a foot in the air when he blinked and his lips started to move as though he was repeating something. It didn’t look anything like ‘help me.’ “Uh, Ivy, he’s not dead. He was wearing his seatbelt and apparently it worked just fine.” 

“Well kill him if you like, I don’t really mind either way.” Ivy examined the door to the caravan, which had been badly bent out of shape in the crash. “I still say we see if he has a map. Dead or alive, he’s not going to be driving anywhere else in such a state. Harley, be a dear and get this door off please. I don’t think I can manage it.”

Harley squinted a little. If you took away the bruising on the driver’s face – and wasn’t that odd, since he’d only just got in the crash – and the haggard exhaustion, he was quite striking. In fact, only one man she’d ever met looked quite like that. She burst out into delighted laughter. “Ivy, you won’t believe who the driver is.” She walked around to the side and gave the door a solid thump with her shoulder. It screeched unhappily but didn’t budge very far. Harley put one hand on the doorframe and tried again, this time it clattered inwards.

Ivy shrugged and followed Harley into the caravan. “I’m sure I have no idea.”

The caravan was a disaster from the crash but there was blood on the bed and a box full of chemicals and scientific books and machinery had spilled over that spoke of far more interesting things. Harley stepped over the wreckage of the kitchenette and opened the partition between driving area and living space.

“It’s Doctor Crane.” She slipped into the passenger seat and watched for a moment as he shuddered and whispered to himself. “Doctor Crane?” Harley put on her best Asylum Voice and touched him gently but firmly on the shoulder. “Doctor Crane, we’re here to help you.”

He moaned and shut his eyes. “Go away.” Crane’s voice was hoarse. He let go of the steering wheel and wrapped lacerated hands around his arms, leaving smears of red over an already bloody shirt. “You’re not there and I’m not here.”

Harley gave Ivy a concerned look as she came through the door. “He’s completely loopy,” she pronounced, squeezing the back of his neck at two pressure points. Crane’s head lolled forward and he slumped against the wheel, out cold.

Ivy sighed and chewed thoughtfully on her lip for a moment. “We’ll see what’s lying about in here, stick anything useful on the back of the bike and bring him along, just in case he starts making sense again.”

“It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze on the bike,” Harley said. “I don’t think three of us will fit.”

Ivy sighed. “Well stick him on the bike with the stuff and we’ll just have to push the damn thing and walk back.”

Harley rubbed at the neck of her harlequin suit. “Ivy…we still don’t know where we are.”

*~*~*~*

Alfred’s face swum into view and it sounded like he was saying something through a very long tunnel stuffed with cotton. Bruce groaned and shut his eyes again but the sound and light was insistent now, creeping in through his eyelids and clearing into something comprehensible as words.

“A glass,” he managed to say. “Over my head.”

“More than that, I’d wager,” Alfred replied and a cool cloth settled over Bruce’s forehead. “You’re a very lucky man that he didn’t finish the job. I gather that you took him up to the caravan and he took advantage?”

Bruce, despite the splitting pain in his head, found he couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Something along those lines.” He tried opening his eyes again and squinted up at Alfred. “He won’t be moving fast, he’s injured.”

Alfred made a face. “Doctor Crane took the caravan. I took the liberty of calling the bank to cancel your credit cards, sir, and about an hour ago I received a call from some sporting company wishing to know if you would like to face their campaign for their new climbing equipment, including pockets that won’t allow men such as yourself to drop items like wallets.”

“I’m not going to fall asleep Alfred.” Bruce eased himself into a sitting position and realized he was in his bed in the hotel. “You don’t have to talk to keep me awake.” He flinchingly brushed his fingers over the bandages on his temple. “He hit me with a glass.”

“Sir, you’re repeating yourself.” Alfred said unhappily. “Your pupils are uneven as well, he definitely concussed you. I thought about calling the police, but if Doctor Crane is driving your camper then…”

Bruce tried to get up but his head spun and he was forced to fall back against the pillows. “No, I’ll find him. This is my fault, I underestimated him, I assumed he was through fighting.” He took a deep breath and tried again to get up, swinging his feet over the edge to rest on the floor before pausing to let his head adjust. “God, he’s not well, he won’t last five minutes if he has another fit again.”

Alfred helped Bruce to his feet, though his expression clearly said he’d rather Bruce was staying put. “I believe that is the least of your worries, sir. He took the lab Lucius set up and I believe that he might have formulated a possible cure. The…the blood in the padded room you made, some of it looked like chemical equations. With the equipment in his control, there is a chance he could stabilize his insanity and become a menace again.”

It made sense to Bruce, but at the same time, all he could really wrap his mind about was the idea that Crane was trying to drive a caravan when he was obviously not well and he was going to crash. He couldn’t get the image of Crane out of his head; the one of Crane sitting in the bed, looking beautiful and fragile in that oversized shirt, lips swollen and skin patterned with the bruises Bruce had given him, asking for a kiss just before he’d made his escape.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Bruce muttered, leaning on the furniture for support. “I need to get back to the Batcave…I can’t go after him like this.”

“You can’t go after him at all, Master Bruce,” Alfred said sternly, as though Bruce was six years old and trying to climb up the kitchen shelves for the condensed milk. “You are going to stay in bed and rest. A concussion is not something to be taken lightly.”

Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity table’s mirror and stopped. If he’d looked like hell that morning, he now looked a lot worse. “The walking wounded,” he said, mostly to himself. “He’ll have a fit again and drive off the road.”

Alfred caught hold of his arm before he fell down. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, is what I say, sir. Now please, go back to bed.”

“He was broken long before I got to him,” Bruce said tiredly. “You know, it was a glass he hit me with. I’d brought him orange juice and made him scrambled eggs and toast. Why didn’t he kill me? I would have if I were him.”

“Sir,” Alfred gently maneuvered him back into the bed. “I think perhaps you should rest a little and save any thoughts regarding him for later.”

Bruce let Alfred draw the covers back up around him wondering why his own pulse had to sound so damned loud. “He kissed me first.” It was important that Alfred understand that. He didn’t want Alfred thinking badly of him.

Alfred pursed his lips but only said, “Well, I can’t say I didn’t suspect Doctor Crane.”

“I don’t think he had a very nice life.” Bruce could hear his voice slurring tiredly. 

Alfred was still making a face like he was holding his tongue. “That’s no excuse, sir.”

Bruce nodded. “You’re right.” He shut his eyes, feeling like a little boy again on the nights when his parents were out for the evening and Alfred would tuck him in. “But maybe it’s a reason.”

*~*~*~*

Jonathan woke abruptly but the only indication that he was no longer asleep was a slight twitch of his eyelids. He stayed perfectly still, taking stock of his situation as best he could without opening his eyes. Every single bruise on his body was demanding his attention and he had a splitting headache. A slight shifting of his legs reminded him of the very acute aching inside him but his hands had been freshly bandaged and they actually felt good, all things considered. The bruising on his face didn’t feel quite as painful either, though his skin felt a little sticky. Jonathan grimaced and opened his eyes. His first coherent thought beyond comprehending the pain he was in was; ‘For Christ’s sake, not again. I’ve spent all day waking up.’

He was, of all places, in a greenhouse – or what remained of one after a rampaging jungle had taken out the majority of its structure – lying on a bed of leaves which was surprisingly comfortable though it stank of rot and wet earth. Sitting next to him in a little pile was one of his suits and his spare pair of glasses, complete with under-things, shoes, socks, tie and cufflinks. He swallowed down what might have been a lump of emotion, or might have been nausea and put his glasses on gratefully. Jonathan rose slowly, in consideration for all his pains, and stripped off the borrowed clothing, grateful to be back in his own things. He was knotting his tie when a curvaceous woman with brilliant red hair and a friendly smile appeared from within the tangle of plants.

“Hello, Doctor Crane.” She sounded a little hesitant. “How are you feeling?” 

Jonathan adjusted his tie and smiled grimly. “I’ve been better,” he said honestly. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve been worse as well. You were sitting in a wreck only an hour ago making precious little sense. I put some of my own salve on your face and hands though, it should help. I believe the color is already a lot better.”

“It is, thank you.” Jonathan flexed his hands. Indeed they already felt as though there were scabs stretching under the bandages and not open cuts. “As for my previous state – I was poisoned by my own gas, and I consider frequent fits of insanity doing quite well, all things considered.” He gave her an appraising look as he eased himself back down into a sitting position on the leaves. They had enough give that he wasn’t in too much discomfort and it certainly felt better than standing did. “You must be Doctor Isley.” 

She shook her head. “Not anymore. It’s Poison Ivy, though you may call me Ivy. And this is Harley Quinn.” Ivy stepped aside to reveal a young woman, pretty in an unassuming, girl-next-door sort of way with blonde hair and a little snub nose. “Perhaps you know her better as Harleen Quinzelle, she worked in your Asylum.”

Of course, the two that Batman had been asking him about. It struck him as wonderfully ironic that a cute little thing like Harley had beaten the Bat badly enough to leave marks. He wondered if it would be inappropriate to congratulate her on a job well done.

Ivy settled herself in what looked like a swinging chair made of vines and Harley perched on top of a horizontal root thick as Jonathan’s torso. The fact that she had worked under the same roof as he had was less of a shock then it might have been. He hadn’t spent much time getting to know the other doctors beyond a professional capacity but even then, some of them seemed like they’d been as unsettled as he was. 

“Somehow I find myself unsurprised,” Jonathan replied dryly. “I can’t say I remember you, but I imagine you can gather how busy I was at the time.”

Harley nodded. “You an’ me both, doctor. You an’ me both.”

“Do you prefer Scarecrow, Doctor Crane, or Jonathan?” Ivy asked politely, crossing her legs to expose a more than decent amount of thigh. “It’s a bit trying these days now that everyone I know seems to have two or three names and there really isn’t any protocol for situations like this.”

Jonathan wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose to help ease his headache, but settled for taking a few deep breaths. “Doctor Crane is fine. I haven’t seen much of the Scarecrow since the Narrows went up in smoke, I’ve been too busy trying to remember how to be Jonathan Crane, though I understand that you have something of an interest in the Scarecrow.” One of his hands came up of its own volition to brush against the bruising on his cheek before he caught himself and settled his hands back into his lap.

Ivy smiled slightly. “I’ve got a business proposition for you, Doctor Crane.” 

She stood again, coming to crouch next to him, invading his personal space. Ivy put one hand on his thigh and leaned in so their faces were very close. Her breath was sweet like sugar cane and her hair smelt of warm growing things. He realized she wasn’t hued in blue or yellow shades of pink like most Caucasians were, but she was tinted green. One cool hand brushed over his hair and down his chest, long nails trailing lightly behind.

“I realize I haven’t looked in a mirror recently,” Jonathan said dryly, “but I do recall being struck several times in the face. Unless I’ve missed my guess, I’m not exactly making the bruises look rugged. On top of that, I can definitely remember my track record with women and I’m gathering from this rousing display of feminine wiles that you want something more than a business proposal, and I highly doubt it has anything to do with sex at all.”

Ivy sat back, looking startled. “Harley.” She sounded surprised. “It’s not working.” She took his face in her hands, pressing painfully against his bruises. “You don’t feel any…different?” Ivy asked. “Think carefully, this is important.”

He took a deep breath and considered his physical and mental state. “No. Professional curiosity bids me ask what it is that I’m supposed to be experiencing, though.”

“Pheromones,” Ivy snapped, obviously irritated. “You should be experiencing the effects of my pheromones. Are you positive you’re not madly in love with me and would do anything for a kiss?”

“Lust gas, God…of all things.” Jonathan shook his head, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “I’m terribly sorry, that won’t affect me. Working with pheromones clearly has its drawbacks.”

Harvey waggled a finger at him. “Ain’t so, Doctor Crane. It works on everyone, ‘cept me, and that’s ‘cause I’m immune to poisons and toxins, just like Ivy here.”

“No, really.” Jonathan shut his eyes for a moment. “I’m gay.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Ivy exclaimed. “It works on everyone!”

He could feel his face turning a rather nice shade of pink and glared at them to combat his embarrassment. “As you are both doctors, I take it you’ve heard of the Kinsey scale. I’m a five and we are fewer than most people would like to think; so no, your pheromones won’t work because there is nothing about women that I find sexually attractive. However, if it is any consolation, I think you are incredibly beautiful and I’m sure that since the three of us are all intelligent people with similar goals in mind, we can all get along without resorting to things like physiological manipulations.”

Harvey leaned over so far that for a moment Jonathan wondered how it was physically possible that she wasn’t falling flat on her face. “Well that explains a lot,” she said, half to herself, half to Ivy. “But not the suits.”

“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan snapped.

She looked at him as though she hadn’t been staring at him intently. Her grin was something the Joker would have been proud of. “Well I’d had a twenty in the pool that you were queer as a three dollar bill, but then one of the inmates pointed out that your suits didn’t fit you properly and you wore sweater-vests, which isn’t synonymous with queer, only that you’re one of those pseudo-English types who all seem gay but most of ‘em aren’t.”

Jonathan wondered if he was very good in the next three seconds if God would have one of Ivy’s plants swallow him whole. “There was a betting pool at Arkham running on if I were gay or not?” He asked incredulously. “And the inmates were betting?”

Harley shrugged. “Shame, I can’t collect now.” She hopped down from her perch, still looking at Jonathan if he was some sort of interesting specimen. He had the acutely uncomfortable sensation of knowing what one of his own patients must have felt like. “Ah well,” she said abruptly. 

“Well, whatever the case,” Ivy seemed to have gotten over her initial shock. “There’s a few hitches in the plan I’ve been concocting and you’re the man who can fix them.”

Jonathan frowned. “Not at the moment I can’t.” He tapped the side of his head self-depreciatingly. “Once I’ve got myself back in my own head, I’ll be willing to discuss whatever plan it is you have, but at the moment, my primary concern is stopping the fits.”

“How long would that take? In your best estimate?”

“A day, three at most.” Jonathan shrugged at her surprised expression. “I’ve got a few ideas for antidotes to the toxin. If none of them work then I’ll probably be wholly insensible and therefore of no use. You’ll have your first answer by tonight.”

She smiled and gestured for him to follow. “We’ll get your lab set up at once.”

*~*~*~*

It was late in the evening when Harley stopped by the little lab to see how Jonathan was, considering he hadn’t emerged since he’d started and it had been almost eleven hours. 

“How’s it goin’?” She peered over Jonathan’s shoulder at the notebook full of equations he had next to the potential serum. “Looks complicated.”

Jonathan put his glasses back on and turned to look at her. He’d rolled up his sleeves in concession to the heat and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, his tie hanging loose over the sweater-vest. Except for the bruises – that thanks to Ivy’s salve had almost entirely faded – he looked much like he had back in his Arkham days on a late night in the lab. She resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

“It’s unfortunate,” he said distractedly. “I have no reliable test subjects to experiment upon. I fear I’ll have to just stick it in my arm and hope for the best.”

She leaned against the desk, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Well, Ivy wants to go out tonight, have a bit of a run about Gotham for the fun of it and I wanted to know if you wanted to come along.” 

“I don’t think Ivy would appreciate my tagging along.” Jonathan smiled nervously at her and it was hard to believe that he had ever been half responsible for bringing such mayhem to the Narrows. He looked like a kid afraid of being picked on in the playground. 

Harley made a ‘pshaw’ sound and waved a hand about to negate what he’d said. “Nah, Ivy’s just not much of a people person. She’s had a tough run of it with men especially, but she doesn’t mind you, I can tell. She asked me if I thought we needed a side-car for the bike an’ she wouldn’t have if she was intending to get rid of you right away.”

Jonathan glanced back at his work and then sighed. “I’ve been putting it off…” He picked up a beaker of sap colored liquid and turned it over for a moment before setting it down again in a somewhat nervous, fidgety movement. “God, I feel like Doctor Jekyll.”

“You’re gonna take that right now?” Harley found she was actually worried about him. “Are you sure?”

“Not at all.” Jonathan put a needle into the beaker and slid the plunger up, as the chamber filled slowly with the syrupy liquid. “It may kill me, it may destroy my mind, or it might not do anything at all. We shall see.” He tapped the needle to get the air out of it and handed it to Harley while he tied a bit of rubber tubing around his bicep. “If I wind up like a vegetable,” he said softly, taking the needle back, “please kill me.” He slipped it into his vein, shut his eyes and pressed the plunger down slowly.

Harley watched, holding her breath in anticipation. 

Jonathan gave her an arch look. “It’s not going to take effect for another half hour. Or, at least, it shouldn’t do.” He unwrapped the tourniquet, rolled down his sleeves, took off his glasses, pulled off his tie and removed his sweater-vest. Reaching under the desk he pulled out the straight-jacket. “Help me get this on.”

She did the buckles up as he instructed wondering if she could have done the same had she been in his position. Harley doubted it. “If it’s not too personal a question…” She trailed off, binding his arms into place. “I’m not…”

“Just spit it out,” he said in exasperation. 

“Someone tried to strangle you. Prob’ly the same someone who bruised up your arms and wrists, an’ I’d bet my life on there being a whole mess of ‘em under that suit.” Harley kept his gaze, watching as he flinched a little with each accusation. 

He lifted his chin. “What, exactly, is your point?”

Harley shrugged sadly. “I don’t bruise easy, but I figure if I did, I’d have looked a lot like you a few days ago. You don’t get that sort of damage done in one day. Those are layers. I jus’…I think I might understand, that’s all, if you ever…You’ve been missing for two weeks, who did you go to? Ivy’d be happy to make a detour an’ kick his ass if you want.” She gave him a strained smile. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

Jonathan shook his head, staring down at the floor. “It’s not,” he said tightly. “But thank you, and no, there’s no need for that.”

“There was blood on the sweatpants you were wearing before, an’ it didn’t come from someone else. I’ve seen you flinch when you sit. Are you all right?”

Jonathan flushed unhappily. “I’ll be fine in a day or two. It’s not…I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to know that.” She wasn’t what she considered an affectionate person, not really – unless one was talking about the Joker – but Harley gave Jonathan a fierce hug anyway. He stiffened, shoulders tense under her arms and then sagged a little in her embrace. “We’re not nice people, you an’ I,” she said into his hair and he smelt of fear and expensive shampoo. “But us villains have got to look after each other.” Harley planted a kiss on his forehead then let go, a little embarrassed, and went back to her position against the desk.

He shut his eyes and let his head tip back. “It’s all right,” he said tiredly. “He almost, for one second, made me believe that he cared.” The corners of Jonathan’s mouth turned up in a nasty smile. “And then I hit him with a toaster.”

Harley laughed. “Nice.”

They sat in silence then, waiting for the drug to take effect.

Around twenty minutes after he had injected himself, Jonathan started convulsing so hard he fell off the chair and lay, spasming on the floor. Harley dropped to her knees and pinned him down, shoving the tubing he’d used between his teeth so there was at least something to bite down on. His eyes were open, wide and terrified and he convulsed so hard he nearly threw her off and then laid still, eyelids falling shut.

Harley checked his pulse and found it was steady and regular. “C’mon, Doctor Crane,” she muttered. “Wake up.”

His eyes opened again, and he sat up, a slight smile touching at the edges of his mouth. “Doctor Crane isn’t here right now,” he said and laughed like it was an old joke. “Unbuckle my arms.”

“Uh…” Harley eased back a little. There was something slightly less than sane in his expression. “If you’re not Doctor Crane…”

“Scarecrow,” he said, turning so she could reach the straps. “And I believe you said something about causing a little mayhem?” Scarecrow stood with none of the trouble that Jonathan had shown, long sleeves of the straight jacket pushed up out of the way. 

Ivy came in then, dressed and ready to go out. They stared at each other for a moment before she nodded. “I think you’ll like what we found,” she said and led the way out of the make-shift lab. 

Sitting out on an oversized leaf was the burlap mask. Next to it, several canisters were labeled: Evidence, Fear Toxin. 

The Scarecrow ran a finger along one of the seams of his mask. He gave Harley an odd look. “Better get your glad rags on,” he said, and cut off the sleeves to the straight-jacket with garden shears then unwrapped the bandages from his hands.

Harley did as she was told, still daubing on the last of the greasepaint when she returned. Ivy was waiting on the motorbike and the Scarecrow had traded Jonathan’s suit pants for leather ones, though god knew where he’d found them. The canisters lay empty and he had filled little vials full of the gas and had them strapped on about his waist like a gun-belt. He was wearing the mask and had picked up a scythe that had been lying around the greenhouse. Either he or Ivy had apparently gone completely around the twist because he was sitting astride a horse.

Harley tossed him her motorcycling, fingerless gloves. “Here,” she said shortly. “It’ll help protect your hands.”

He put them on, and she got the impression that he was still giving her that odd little smile underneath the burlap. Harley decided she officially liked Doctor Crane much better than the Scarecrow. At least he was reasonably insane, not completely bat-shit crazy.

She shook her head and got on the motorcycle. “I’m not even gonna ask where you got that horse from.”

Ivy sat behind her and wrapped her arms around Harley’s waist as she started the engine. “My babies found it wandering around. There’s a few of them, still running wild after the Narrows incident. They found their way here to nature.”

“Right.” Harley revved the engine and headed off out of Ivy’s little kingdom. “Y’know, I thought things were weird around Mista J. but Ivy, this is a whole new house of fun.”


	7. Delirium Trigger

The ride into the center of Gotham was a little tedious because for all that the Scarecrow seemed a lot tougher than Jonathan, he was still hurting and riding a horse probably wasn’t doing him any favors. Harley was forced to go slowly so he and the horse could keep up with her bike. She let her thoughts wander where they would – except towards the Joker because this evening was supposed to be fun – and stumbled upon the idea of writing imaginary Arkham reports for her cohorts. 

Poison Ivy;   
Ivy’s idea of a utopia sounds beautiful and lonely and I don’t think she’d know what to do with it if she got it. Is the kind of woman who would rip Gotham down and let the inhabitants be turned to mulch but who would offer asylum to fellow super-villains on the run from shitty relationships; whatever kind of woman that is. Ivy is probably totally nuts and treatment should include copious amounts of caramel ice-cream and nights out with the girls.

The Scarecrow;   
Most likely a split personality of one Doctor Jonathan Crane prev. of Arkham. Most likely sociopathic. Freud’s dream patient because what’s with the scythe and the horse? Completely fucking nuts and should be treated by bringing back Doctor Crane because one) he’s much nicer and two) he doesn’t wear a burlap sack on his head. (Though the pants are nice)

Well, they weren’t quite the sort of report that Arkham would have considered appropriate for filing, but it amused Harley and it kept her from worrying about where exactly Jonathan had gone and if he was going to come back any time soon. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen someone with an obvious case of multiple personality disorder – only they were calling it something else these days, something like DID, because no one could _prove_ that the personalities were separate people. Harley was pretty sure that Crane hadn’t been suffering from anything of the sort before he’d been gassed, because she’d read the reports in the news and in his files and he’d been bug-fuck crazy but Scarecrow had been a persona, not a person. The man keeping apace with her motorcycle on a horse and wielding a dirty great scythe was not Crane.

“Hey Scarecrow,” she called over the rumble of the engine. “Can I ask you a question?”

He turned to face her and she could see the brightness of his eyes even from behind the mask. “You just did,” he said, and turned away again. It might have been a joke, but Harley wouldn’t have bet on it either way.

She huffed out an exasperated sigh and tried again. “Where’s Crane?”

That seemed to startle him and his head whipped around to face her once more. “Does it matter?” The voice modulator built into the mask made his question sound more ominous then it otherwise might have been. The silence between them stretched out and then Scarecrow inclined his head slightly. “He’s taking a rest. Sleeping, if you will.”

“An’ where were you before now?”

The Scarecrow laughed and Harley’s skin crawled as though someone was walking over her grave. “Waiting.”

*~*~*~*

Bruce woke with a groan. He’d felt like shit in his day, more times than he could count, but this was something new. His vision refused to settle and the room looked a little bit fuzzy around the edges, though that might have been the fault of his concussion or the fault of the class-A headache that he had because of the concussion.

He pushed the blankets off himself and sat up. For a couple of seconds his stomach rolled over and his ears rung with an off tone note. Then the world stopped spinning and his stomach settled into an aching that matched his head. Slowly, so as not to repeat that wonderfully nauseating moment, Bruce slid out of the bed, eased himself to his feet, and then waited until he was steady on his feet before stumbling to the bathroom. Concussion, or not, he needed to piss and then he needed a handful of aspirin and to get his fucking head in order so he could go after Crane.

He’d just completed the first order of business, with only a little trouble thanks to the dizziness, but without mishap when the familiar sounds of Alfred bustling about the bedroom caught his ear.

“Master Wayne?”

Bruce popped two aspirin into his mouth, braced himself on the bathroom countertop and drank straight from the faucet. “In here,” he called in reply, and then wished he hadn’t when even just raising his voice slightly made his head spin. “I’m fine,” he added, preemptively. 

Alfred’s disapproving face came around the corner into the bathroom. “You should have called me, sir.”

That made Bruce grin slightly. “I don’t think that’s included in your duties, Alfred.” He spared a hand to cup water and splash it over his face. He didn’t feel better after doing that, but it certainly didn’t hurt and he could almost pretend that it was helping his headache. “I need…” Bruce shut his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. They didn’t seem to want to cooperate. “I’m going to need your help with this one,” he said finally.

“You need to go back to bed.” Alfred’s face was a picture of displeasure. “Gotham can survive for a few days without you.”

“Not with the Scarecrow on the loose,” Bruce muttered and made his unsteady way back into his bedroom. “If he’s got plans then…Gotham can’t survive without Batman. That’s why I created him.”

Alfred opened Bruce’s wardrobe for him and started laying clothing out on the bed. They were clothes for sitting around in, not for putting on under the Batsuit. “Are you sure it’s not Jonathan Crane you’re thinking of, rather than Gotham?” Alfred asked archly. 

It was a low blow and from the look on Alfred’s face, they both knew it. Bruce leaned against the footboard for added balance and rubbed at his face with one hand. “He needs help, Alfred,” he said. “And he knows who I am, so it’s in my interest to catch him again.” Bruce sighed and shut his eyes. “Don’t…I know what he is. I know.”

There was a low murmur from Alfred that sounded a lot like, ‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ but Bruce couldn’t be sure because the ringing in his ears had started up again so he didn’t say anything, mostly because he really wasn’t sure either.

“I’m going out,” Bruce said finally. “With or without your help.” He opened his eyes again to find Alfred staring at him with an inscrutable look on his face. “But I’ll get a lot further with it.”

Alfred looked away. “I’ll drive you to the batcave then, shall I, sir?”

It was a terrible idea, they both knew it, but what else was there to be done?

*~*~*~*

Gotham was in chaos, which was exactly the way that Harley liked to see it. She was grinning, she could tell, like she hadn’t done in days, as she spun her motorbike around, herding the panicked crowd. Ivy had disappeared for the moment but the sirens were still a few blocks away and from what Harley could hear over the screaming, there weren’t nearly enough cops to stop even one of them. Besides, Ivy had a way of reappearing dramatically at opportune moments and she was probably scrounging about in the dirt somewhere, planting and cultivating a botanical time bomb that would wreak havoc long after they had left.

The Scarecrow, unlike Jonathan, didn’t seem to have much scientific interest in the properties of the fear gas. She could almost have imagined what it would have been like if Crane had been in control that night in the Narrows; all hunched over his notebook, annotating and recording. It was kind of cute. Scarecrow was using the combination of his horse and the scythe to terrify the crowd into tight spaces where he would gas them and leave them to take each other apart. It was clever in its own way, but ‘Crow didn’t seem to have quite the same levels of control that Crane did and she wasn’t sure she trusted him to have her and Ivy’s backs.

Of course, even before the cops showed up the Batmobile roared onto the scene, weaving a little erratically, and nearly hitting a few of the panicked crowd. It was bad driving, even by the Bat’s standards. The Scarecrow’s horse reared back, screaming. Harley hadn’t ever heard a horse make a noise like that before, but the poor thing looked about as spooked and as crazed as Dr. Crane had, and it clipped a pedestrian with one flailing hoof before landing again. 

Either Ivy’s talent with plants also came with some sort of precognition (which Harley was 100% sure that it didn’t) or she had a phenomenal grasp of timing. No sooner had the Batmobile screeched to a halt than a huge torrent of vines shot up out of the ground, tangling around the wheels and up over the windscreen as the Bat himself flew out onto the streets.

Harley giggled. “Better than a boot!” she called out to the Scarecrow. If he was amused by her traffic humor, it didn’t show.

She wasn’t entirely sure what kind of tricks the Bat would have up his sleeve but it was three against one and both she and ‘Crow had easily maneuverable transportation. And speaking of the Scarecrow, he and Batman were eyeballing each other from across the crowd. Harley hefted her gun thoughtfully as the Scarecrow wheeled his horse around in tight circles, waiting for Batman to make the first move. On one hand she figured a straight shot would probably take Batman down pretty quickly and she was a more than passable shot. On the other hand, the Joker would be pissed as hell if she shot Batman and he wasn’t there. It would certainly spoil all the fun they might have had later, and she was close to certain that he wouldn’t take her back if she shot Batman. On another hand again, Batman was standing kind of funny and he wasn’t making any sort of move.

Harley put her gun away and toed the kickstand down on her bike. “A vampire bat comes into his cave,” she said with a grin. “He’s all covered in blood an’ all the other batlings start askin’ where he got it. They set up such a noise that the first bat tells ‘em to follow him an’ he leads them out into the night.” She paused, one hand on her hip and winked at Batman. “You listening, sugar? Good. So the bat says, ‘You guys see that tree there?’ an’ all the other bats go, ‘yes! Yes!’ An’ the first bat says, ‘Good. ‘Cause I didn’t.’”

Excepting the screams of the panicked crowd there was silence. 

Harley rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that bad a joke.”

Batman stared at her like she’d grown two heads, but he still didn’t move. It was a little unnerving. She would have made a run at him, but the fact that he was just standing there staring at her made her wonder exactly what he had planned and Harley decided that just barreling at him would probably be exactly what he wanted her to do. So she stayed put. It was possibly one of the least interesting fights she’d ever had with him.

The Scarecrow laughed and the mask’s distortion kicked in a second late so it echoed and spat static for a couple of seconds after the man underneath had stopped. “Oh, isn’t that just precious? How’s your head Batty-boy? Can you even see straight?” He brought the horse mostly to a standstill, though it snorted and stepped a little back and forth. “You should have stayed down.”

“Funny,” Batman growled, “I thought that’s where you liked it.”

As comebacks go, Harley wasn’t sure that one made total sense, but she got the gist of it well enough and she wasn’t so foolish that she couldn’t put two and two together and come up with the answer as to who had roughed Crane up. Their standoff was ridiculous enough, Harley thought a couple of seconds later, without her standing there gaping like a landed fish. 

The Scarecrow laughed again, and she wished he’d stop doing that; it was making her skin crawl. He charged his horse straight at Batman as though he would simply trample the dark knight to death. At the last second Batman leaped out of the way, catching hold of one of the Scarecrow’s legs, dragging him off the horse. They both fell, rolling across the tarmac and Harley leapt for Batman before he could get to the Scarecrow. She didn’t care how good he was with his gasses and his scythe; he’d get his ass handed to him if it came down to hand to hand combat. 

Harley tackled Batman, landing a kidney punch, though his armor deflected most of the blow and he rolled with it, sending her into a somersault to avoid being slammed into the ground. He came after her, leaving the Scarecrow to unload two canisters of gas into the crowd, though it had no effect on either Harley or Batman.

Ivy came out from wherever she’d wandered off to, accompanied by a be-thorned army of vicious looking plants that crawled over the street, raising her up on a mound of vines and sneaking out to snatch hold of the Bat. He vanished under the creepers and Ivy shook her head in disgust.

“That was pathetic.”

The Scarecrow limped over to them, holding his scythe. “He was concussed.”

Harley gave him a slantways look, but kept her mouth shut. If he wanted to talk, then he would talk. Until then, it was none of her goddamn business who Crane chose to… “You hit the Batman with a glass of orange juice?”

“Crane did.” The Scarecrow leaned on his scythe. “I would have hit him with his caravan.” He peered at the writhing mass of plants. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

Ivy tossed her hair impatiently. “Not dead, just trapped. I thought we would discuss what to do with him, since we all had a hand in his capture.”

It was about then that the vines burst into flames and it was like a hundred bonfires all at once as the Batman came out of the smoke, a little sooty about the edges, but otherwise unharmed. Ivy screamed as the pile she was standing atop of lit up underneath her and her plants burned and died. Harley dodged past the Bat to tackle Ivy out of the inferno. 

Ivy lay on the ground, gasping. “Split up,” she wheezed. “He can’t chase all of us. We’ll meet back at HQ.” Harley shook her head no, so Ivy shoved her away and staggered to her feet. “Go! While he’s distracted with the Scarecrow. It’s not worth jeopardizing our plans for.”

Harley cursed and ran for her bike. She kicked it to life as she watched Batman take off after Scarecrow, the two of them making for a nearby parking lot. When she looked back to Ivy, Ivy was gone so she roared off back towards the greenhouse, cursing all the while.

*~*~*~*

Under the tangle of blackened plants, Ivy curled up around her burns. It was nothing she couldn’t heal, but it hurt and the sudden death of her babies had sapped her strength. Better that the Bat went after ‘Crow and Harley got away. They could always break the Scarecrow out of Arkham later if he got caught.

Ivy shut her eyes and concentrated on healing.

*~*~*~*

Batman stared across the parking lot at the Scarecrow. “Crane,” he growled. It wasn’t really Crane though, and he knew it. “I should have guessed you’d be with them after all. You never could manage on your own, could you?”

It had been a mistake to let the Scarecrow get into an open space. Before, with the street clogged up by plants, he hadn’t had a lot of room to maneuver but now he had room to swing the scythe and Batman was having trouble keeping his vision clear enough that there was only one of everything. His head was pounding and the ringing in his ears had started up again.

“Now, now, let’s not go pointing fingers,” the Scarecrow taunted. “After all, you’ve never fought me.”

Batman snarled though he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment so the world would stop spinning. “No, but I think if a DA’s assistant can beat you, I can manage it.”

“Sticks and stones, sticks and stones.” The Scarecrow twirled the scythe with what appeared to be a practiced hand. The distortion on his mask crackled and hissed, like it was laughing all on its own. “They say you can’t keep a good man down. But you’re not really a good man, are you, Bats? Poor little Jonny’s all in knots over you.” He tipped his head to one side and if Batman hadn’t know better he would have sworn the Scarecrow was grinning at him. “I’ll bet you’re almost as sore as he is, so let’s see if I can’t finish this properly.” The blade flashed in the garish light as it came to an abrupt halt.

Where the hell Crane had learned to handle a scythe like that was something Batman was going to have to investigate. He kept underestimating the tenacity of the doctor and all his little…quirks. He smiled grimly and clenched his fists.

The Scarecrow had the advantage of a longer reach with the scythe but Batman had the advantage of height, weight and years of training. They were both stiff and bruised and where Batman’s head ached and spun the Scarecrow’s vision was hampered by the mask and he was (hopefully) too crazy to think straight – not that Batman could rely on that. 

They came together with a clash of scythe and gauntlets, Batman’s wrists crossed in guard so he could push ‘Crow back again and lash out with a kick. The kick went wide; he’d aimed at the other Scarecrow that was fading in and out of his vision. As soon as he was balanced again, Scarecrow struck out, blow after blow, and it was all Batman could do to keep up with the spinning blade. However, the scythe wasn’t sharp enough to cut through the Kevlar, so the only way that the Scarecrow could take him out would be by bringing the flat of the blade down on his head.

It was something of an impasse, as the Scarecrow’s breathing came increasingly heavily through the distortion in his mask and Batman’s tenuous balance faltered under the onslaught of blows. Sooner or later one of them had to make a misstep. 

It was the Scarecrow. He came just a little too close and Batman grabbed hold of the end of the noose attached to the mask. It put him in danger of being cracked about the head with the scythe, but the Scarecrow didn’t react fast enough, didn’t bring his weapon around in time – his arms were probably running out of strength – and Batman yanked, hard, sending the Scarecrow stumbling in a circle and then down onto the ground. 

The scythe skittered out of his grasp and Batman yanked on the noose again, crouching over him, pinning him with a knee to his back. He let go of the noose and pulled the burlap mask off, tossing it over his shoulder so he wouldn’t have to listen to the horrible hissing and crackling it was making. He traded his hold on the noose for a handful of the Scarecrow’s hair, pulling him back into an arch. 

The Scarecrow let out an enraged scream that set Batman’s teeth on edge and twisted about in Batman’s hold, trying to throw him off. Batman used his free hand to rip the belt strapped with canisters of fear gas off and then to punch the Scarecrow in the shoulder as he let go of his hair. The blow slammed the Scarecrow forward, face first into the asphalt. The Scarecrow pushed himself back up again, almost immediately, but there was blood on the ground and, from what Batman could see, it was coming from his nose and mouth. The sight of blood only incensed him so he hit the Scarecrow again, and again, until the ground was more red than grey. He grabbed hold of the Scarecrow’s hair again, and the Scarecrow went abruptly limp underneath him, then shuddered and groaned. Batman dug his knee into the Scarecrow’s back a little harder and yanked on the handful of hair he had. 

“God, don’t…” 

It wasn’t the Scarecrow anymore. Batman was sure of it; it was Crane again. Crane, who was shoving at the ground, trying to bend back to ease the pressure on his spine and hair, and Crane who was whimpering through a mouthful of blood but not struggling. 

For some reason all that did was make Batman angrier. He wanted a fight and now that the Scarecrow had retreated to let Jonathan take the punishment he wasn’t sure he could keep one going. It was all a little bit Jekyll and Hyde for Batman so he let go of Crane’s hair and shifted his weight so he could roll Crane onto his back and pin him down by the throat. He didn’t press hard enough to cut off Crane’s air entirely so Crane still didn’t fight back, he just trembled, eyes huge and terrified, whispering his mantra of ‘it’s not real’ over and over. 

Batman tightened his grip, just for a moment, to make Crane gasp uselessly for air but he still didn’t retaliate, only clutching at Batman’s gauntlets, tearing the leather motorcycle gloves and bloodying already bloodied hands. 

“Fight back!” Batman growled, choking Crane enough that his eyes squeezed shut and his body thrashed about automatically. It wasn’t what Batman wanted though, even when moisture leaked out from under Crane’s eyelashes and he coughed up blood through his useless gasps for air. “Damn you, fight back.”

Crane’s struggles were starting to weaken, so Batman relaxed his chokehold on Crane. The doctor spat up more blood and even without Batman’s grip on his throat he seemed to be having trouble breathing. No surprise there, since his nose and mouth were a mess. Crane cracked a sickly smile, and though his teeth were as red as the ground it didn’t look like he had lost any. His eyes were fever bright and Batman hit him, just because he could. Crane took the blow with a soft cry and brought up his hands to protect his face, trying to curl up. It looked like the position he’d taken while he was sleeping. 

Batman staggered to his feet. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to throw up from the pain in his head and from the pitiful sight in front of him. Yet still, somehow, Crane, though truly pitiful, even bruised and bloodied was oddly beautiful. “Get up,” Batman snarled. “Get up and fight me.”

Surprisingly, Crane did as he was told, uncurling with a groan and pushing himself half up before Batman caught him right in the ribs with his boot. He hit the ground hard but tried again, arms shaking with the effort. Batman kicked him again and Crane dropped with a groan.

“I can’t.” Crane’s voice was thick and still choked. His shoulders heaved as he panted for air. “I’ve played this game before, and I couldn’t then, and I can’t now.” He rolled over onto his back and wiped at his nose and mouth with the back of his hand, managing to do nothing more than smear the blood around. “So if you’re going to beat me, then just do it, and don’t make a production of it.”

Batman dropped back down to his knees again, over Crane’s thighs. Mostly because his legs weren’t doing a very good job of holding him up with the way his head was spinning. He put a hand on Crane’s chest to steady himself and Crane’s lashes dropped halfway to hood his eyes. 

“Ah,” Crane said. He ran his hands up Batman’s gloves, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

They were in a parking lot. The police were only half a block away, probably trying to clear the crowd and probably looking for both of them. Crane arched one eyebrow, coughed and then made a feeble attempt at backhanding Batman. He didn’t make it even close to Batman’s face, rather, he got his wrist caught and slammed down into the ground.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Batman grated the bones of Crane’s wrist against one another until Crane gasped and writhed in pain.

“Fighting back,” Crane hissed. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” He spat to the side in contempt and licked his lips, sneering at Batman as much as he could do with his nose a fraction away from broken and his face a mass of bruises. “So make up your mind. Are we fucking or are you going to hit me again?”

Batman leaned down and licked the blood off of Crane’s face. Crane went very still but his breathing picked up, labored as it was. Batman tore at the straps holding the straightjacket shut and at Crane’s pants as Crane arched up, hands clenched in Batman’s cape. 

He fucked Crane using Crane’s own blood as lubricant. Too dizzy and disorientated by half, Batman leaned back against a cracked lamppost, Crane kneeling over his thighs in an odd reversal of positions. Crane’s knees scraped raw against the dirty ground, the straightjacket half off and Crane’s thighs and hips were scored with shallow cuts from Batman’s gauntlets. The pointed tips of the ears on Batman’s cowl raked thin lines against Crane’s neck and one bare shoulder and Crane’s mouth and nose dripped blood down his bruised, sweat damp chest. He had one hand tangled in Crane’s hair, the other leaving another set of purpling fingerprints on Crane’s hips until he came, biting down on Crane’s throat to keep quiet. Batman pushed Crane off him and roughly shoved two fingers inside Crane, twisting, using his other hand to stroke Crane off until he cried out and the blood that had dripped down to his stomach was tinted with pearlescent white.

Crane barely moved as Batman dressed him, shoving sweaty skin into leather, leaving the button on his pants undone and his thighs still slick with blood and semen. He didn’t protest when Batman cuffed him to the lamppost and walked away.

Batman had to find Poison Ivy; he knew Harley was long gone, but there was a chance that Ivy was still lurking around the area. His stunt with the explosives had worked better than he had anticipated, and no matter that he was covered in Crane’s blood, or that his spinning head was filled with the image of haunted blue eyes in a battered face. He had a job to do and justice, as twisted up as it was, didn’t get to rest.

He looked back once. Crane hadn’t moved.

Batman grit his teeth and carried on into the night.

*~*~*~*

Harley doubled back on herself and made her careful way around the area, incognito without her facepaint and dressed in stolen, albeit ill-fitting clothing. It was only luck that led her to park her bike in the parking lot where Crane was half sitting, half sprawled on the ground, one wrist handcuffed to a lamppost. She stood for a moment, staring until Crane – and it was Crane – snapped, “A little help would be appreciated.” Harley picked up his mask and the scythe and came to crouch down next to him.

“I guess it would be kinda stupid to ask if you were okay.” Harley set his things down, pulled out her gun and shot the cuffs. They’d still be on one of his wrists, but they could deal with that later. “Can you walk?”

Crane shifted slightly, frowning and wincing. “Perhaps.”

She smiled, though it came out crooked. “You look like hell.” She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He was white under the mess of blood and bruises and there was an unhealthy sheen of sweat on him, but even though he swayed and had to lean against the lamppost for a minute, almost doubled over entirely from the pain, he kept his feet and eventually straightened out, one arm wrapped around his ribs. He reeked of sex. 

“Where’s Ivy?” Crane, leaning heavily on Harley and the scythe, limped slowly over to the motorcycle. “Batman just went after her.”

“At the greenhouse, I think. I didn’t go back yet.” Harley frowned. “Y’ know, I don’t think Mista J’d be real pleased with me, but I’ll shoot the Bat if you ask me to.” She helped him sit astride the bike, trying not to watch the way he winced and hissed between his teeth. “Put a bullet right in between his eyes.”

He half snorted, but blood came out of his nose and he started to cough. “Don’t be a fool. There are more important things at stake, like getting back to the greenhouse so you and I, and Ivy don’t spend all night wandering Gotham looking for one another. She’ll be there, and wondering what the hell happened to you.” Crane pinched the bridge of his nose to stem the bleeding. “Besides, I’m fine.” It was the most flagrant lie that Harley had heard in a very long time. He had the audacity to laugh at the expression on her face. “I’ve had worse, for less, from men not half as noble as our dark knight.”

She spat in contempt. “There ain’t nothin’ noble in what he did.”

“Let’s not discuss this here.” Crane gestured at her bike impatiently. “I want a shower and preferably to stay out of Arkham…” he trailed off, looking confused for a moment, then his eyes narrowed and he snapped, “No. You can’t have it, it’s mine.”

Harley didn’t step back, though she wanted to. “Dr. Crane?”

“It’s mine and you can’t have it,” he said again, then moaned and clutched at his head. “Look what a mess you’ve made of me.”

She put a careful hand on his shoulder, but Crane seemed fully absorbed in talking to himself and so she eased him forwards on the seat, not trusting him to be able to hold on to her. Harley straddled the seat behind him, which wasn’t the best of ways to drive, with a crazy person between her and the handlebars, but she’d manage. She always managed.

*~*~*~*

Ivy’s cocoon of plants was ripped apart, half scorched again, weedkiller and kerosene set alight, smoking her out. She screamed and lashed out with what was left of her resources. Batman grabbed hold of her hair and dragged her out, into the putrid night air.

The Bat, normally an intimidating sight anyway, looked about half a second away from taking her head off her shoulders. His mouth and chin were smeared with blood and it wasn’t his blood. The same dark wetness stained his gauntlets and chestplate. Ivy, changing tactics, pushed as close as she could to the Batman, gripping his face with her hands so her hair, her scent washed over him. It hadn’t worked on Crane and it didn’t seem to have any effect on the Scarecrow either, but what were the odds that it wouldn’t work on Batman as well?

Her gambit paid off. His eyes widened, pupils expanding – though there seemed to be something slightly off about them – and his breathing hitched.

“Would you let go, please?” Ivy cooed. 

Batman carefully set her right and even smoothed her hair a little. It felt as though he was getting blood in it, but at least he wasn’t trying to rip it out by the roots. Ivy took a deep breath and smiled seductively at him.

“There now, isn’t that better?” She took a quick peek at the smoking remains of her plants and decided that it was too late for them and she’d do best to just retreat, like she’d told Harley. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to hit girls?” The minute the words were out of her mouth his eyes narrowed, and it wasn’t in lust. She bit down on her bottom lip, wishing she could take them back. Of course the Batman had issues with his family, any man who dressed up like that and fought crime had to have issues coming out of his ears. Ivy backpedaled furiously. “See now, a man raised right, such as yourself, a dark knight, wouldn’t it be better to kiss and make up?”

He relaxed, but only a fraction. She was losing him. Ivy resisted the urge to stamp her feet in frustration. Damn Crane’s gasses anyway. The cure for it tended to lessen her own potency, especially, it seemed, in the face of such fury.

Batman shook his head a little, he looked like he was actually swaying slightly on his feet. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said politely. “But you’re going to have to come with me.”

“Oh, shoot,” Ivy said and tried for coy. “I was hoping…well…a lady doesn’t like to suggest such things.”

He looked confused. “You want to go somewhere?” Something wasn’t right with the Batman, and since Ivy had no idea what it was, she wasn’t sure if she could exploit it or not.

So she tossed her hair and shrugged a shoulder. “Isn’t that was what you wanted?”

How she kept finding the wrong thing to say, Ivy had no idea. It just wasn’t her night perhaps. Whatever it was she’d said, or how she’d said it, he didn’t like it. One hand grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting it up behind her back, the other clamped over her mouth.

“Exactly what he said,” Batman muttered, dragging her towards the flashing lights and the police cars that were swarming into this street en mass. Trust Gotham’s police force to arrive at the actual scene far later than _around_ the area. He shoved her at the cops and immediately the resounding noise of guns being cocked overpowered even the sound of the sirens in the distance. “Put your gasmasks on,” Batman growled. “Something’s wrong with her.”

And then he was gone, back to the Batmobile, tearing it out from under her dying plants, roaring off into the night.

Ivy sighed and looked up into a forest of guns, all pointed at her, the cops still attaching their gas masks. “Well shit,” she said and put her hands up.

*~*~*~*

Jonathan stared at his reflection in the mirror in disgust. Harley was right, he did look like shit. On the plus side, none of his ribs were broken, his nose had stopped bleeding and Ivy’s salves and potions were keeping the swelling down on his bruises. So, all in all, it could have been much worse. He tucked his shirt into his slacks and limped out of the little bathroom to where Harley sat, fiddling with the reception on a beat up old television.

“Where’s the Scarecrow?” she asked, without looking at him. “Sonofabitch, don’t _do_ that.”

Jonathan was about a second away from asking, ‘Do what?’ but Harley smacked the television and called it the bastard son of a breadbox, so he assumed it wasn’t he whom she was calling a son of a bitch. “He retreated when the Bat caught us and now he can’t get back in charge unless I take more of that serum.”

Harley turned to face him then. “Are you going to?”

He snorted and gingerly sat on one of the plants. “Of course not. My mind is my own, and no one else can have it. Not even my own…” Jonathan made a face. “Not even my own delusions.” He prodded unhappily at his sore wrist. “I’ll have to keep working on an antidote. There’s got to be a way to get rid of him.”

“Well isn’t he you?” Harley crowed in triumph as a static-filled picture came through, complete with tinny, tunneled sound. 

“Perhaps.” Jonathan hoped not, but he wasn’t sure enough to say no. Not without proper research. “What are you looking for?”

Harley came over to sit next to him. “Ivy.”

The news report was the usual reporter’s jargon of ‘Is Batman Evil?’ and ‘Who’s Going to Clean this Mess up?’ and ‘What is the Government Planning on Doing About this?’ It was, unfortunately, followed by a broadcast detailing the capture of Poison Ivy and her subsequent incarceration at Arkham.

Harley turned the television off with a well placed throw of a flowerpot. 

They sat in silence for a minute or two before Jonathan put his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples. “I know Arkham better than I know any other place in the world. All the exits, all the basements…” He trailed off when Harley caught hold of his hand and squeezed gently. “We’ll get her out.” Jonathan tipped his head to the side so it was resting on her shoulder and sighed. “And then I’ll get my mind back, and you’ll go home, and everything will turn out fine in the end.”

It was nice of Harley not to call him out for the terrible liar that he was.

*~*~*~*

“Sir, I’m not sure I want to ask where all this blood is from, since it is apparently not yours.” Alfred looked like he was about a second away from tapping his foot and demanding to know exactly what had happened. He looked worried sick.

Bruce downed a handful of painkillers and sank back into the pillows. “Then don’t, Alfred. You won’t like the answer.” He shut his eyes against the spinning and the high-pitched whine in his ears. “Consider it a bonus that I caught Poison Ivy and let’s leave it at that.”

Alfred started rearranging the tray, a sure sign that he was unhappy. “Is that her blood, sir?”

“No.” Bruce opened his eyes again when all he could think of was a fuzzy image of Crane, chained to the lamppost, staring after him. 

“They didn’t catch him, you know. He’d escaped by the time the police arrived at the scene.” Alfred picked up the tray and the plates rattled slightly, as though Alfred’s hands were shaking. “Eyewitnesses say that the lady joker picked him up on a motorcycle.”

Bruce shut his eyes. He’d rather be haunted by Crane than have to look at Alfred’s disappointment. “Yes, Alfred, it’s Crane’s. I slammed his face into the sidewalk, more than once; is that what you want to know?”

“Don’t let this get out of hand, Master Wayne.” Alfred headed for the door. “If you go too far, there’s no coming back from it.” He shut the door carefully behind him so as not to jar Bruce’s headache any further. It made Bruce angry.

He clenched his fists in the sheets and groaned. “It’s already gone too far,” he whispered. Then the sleeping pills kicked in and Bruce gratefully let them drag him under. At least in such a comatose state he wouldn’t have to think any more.


	8. And Then There Was One

Jonathan woke up and wanted to die. It felt as though there wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t ache and his head was thick with bad dreams, clotted blood and fear. The air around him stank of cloying rot and he gagged a little on the stench. His stomach turned over unhappily and he shut his eyes again to keep back the lights flickering at the edge of his vision and the moisture beading under his eyelashes. He ground his teeth against the pain and uncurled from his customary sleeping position. Jonathan woke up sore from sleeping that way most days, never mind after he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life. 

Something warm and vaguely soft bumped up against his back. Every muscle in his neck and back rebelled against his glance over his shoulder but he wouldn’t allow himself to be bested by something as pathetic as his own stupid, weak body.

Behind him, face still splotched with greasepaint, was Harley, snoring a little. Her mouth was open and she looked young, too young. She opened her eyes a fraction and groaned. 

“Go back to sleep, idiot. It’s still light out.”

He got his arms underneath himself and half pushed, half rolled into a sitting position. It didn’t improve the pain. “I need to get back to work before my symptoms get worse.” Jonathan grabbed onto a vine for support and hauled himself to his feet. “I’ll be in the lab if you need me.”

Harley sat up, abruptly awake. “Don’t,” she said, with a pleading note in her voice. “Don’t risk it.”

Jonathan gave her a truly scathing look. “Oh? And what would you suggest I do instead? I believe my options are to either cure myself or to turn myself in to Arkham. While I enjoyed working there well enough I highly doubt that I would find similar pleasure on the other side of the padded door.” He tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the slacks he was wearing. It was what one might call an exercise in futility, but he was grateful to at least have the clothing, wrinkled or not and was then incredibly angry that he was grateful. The straightjacket, slung over one of the plants, was stained with blood. It made him feel queasy just looking at it. Not because of what had happened, he didn’t care much about that either way; it was the reminder that his grip on his own mind was tenuous at best.

She got up, took a punishing hold on his arm and dragged him into the little bathroom, shoving him in front of the mirror. “Look at yourself! This is what your damn experimenting is doin’.”

“Get your hands off me,” Jonathan snarled. He shoved at her, turning his face away. “I don’t need to look, you stupid girl. I will take whatever I have to take to get my mind back. I’ve suffered bruises, broken bones, cuts, sprains, and humiliations, and humiliations, and humiliations. Don’t think this is something new in my life. It’s all immaterial. So long as I can get my mind back, none of this matters.”

He looked anyway and wished he hadn’t.

The whites of his eyes were red with burst blood vessels and there was dried blood around his nose and mouth. His teeth were stained with it and his face was purple and green, swollen with bruises. There was a cut on his forehead and a circle of bruises around his throat. Scratches lined his neck and cheek and when he looked down at his hands, they were gnarled and scabbed. 

“It’s immaterial,” he said again, with much less conviction. “They’ve no idea of what I’m capable of. Once my mind is my own…”

Jonathan pushed past Harley and limped off. He wanted to make someone scream and if he couldn’t get his head straight, that someone was going to be him.

*~*~*~*

When Bruce woke up he found that the concussion hadn’t eased in the slightest. If anything, it was slightly worse after his night’s escapades. Between it, and the hangover effect of Poison Ivy’s je ne sais quoi, Bruce wanted to curl up in bed and have nothing more to do with the world. But just as Batman couldn’t shirk his duties, nor could Bruce Wayne. At least, not all the time. Instead, he dragged himself out of bed and, in a blur of dressing and driving, made his way across Gotham. 

Driving whilst under a concussion was something he shouldn’t have done in the Batmobile and that thing was virtually a tank. Doing it in a flashy sports car was reckless endangerment. No one stopped him. No one ever did.

He staggered into the office and apologized to Fox for being late to the meeting, for missing the meetings the day before, and the day before that. The board members were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Bruce couldn’t remember if he’d managed to match his tie to his suit, or if he’d remembered to even wear a suit. It took him a minute to realize they were probably staring at the bruises from where Jonathan had broken a glass over his head and then finished the job with a toaster. 

Fox, in a very gentle voice, with none of his usual irony, told Bruce to go home. He asked where Alfred was and Bruce realized he didn’t know. He kept shaking his head and he was making his excuses, “Entirely my fault, I shouldn’t have trusted…” and Fox would cut in with, “Faulty ropes. Rock climbing. You should be more careful.” Bruce had no idea what rock climbing had to do with anything. 

He was supposed to wait for Alfred, but he forgot a minute or so later and got in his car instead. Bruce drove to Wayne Manor to talk to the builders. He was sure that there was something he was supposed to talk to them about but if he’d missed that meeting or not, he was about as sure of as he was about what rock climbing had to do with Jonathan or where Alfred was. He felt like he was sleepwalking.

At one point, Bruce was certain his phone was ringing so he answered it. Only, his phone hadn’t been ringing and he was, in fact, only cupping his hand as though his phone was there when it was still in his pocket and he was having a rather animated conversation with his hand. There was moisture on his face and he couldn’t see out of his left eye. It took him a while to realize that his eye was watering which explained both phenomena. 

The builders took one look at him and told him that it was all under control. The foreman said he wouldn’t make any decisions until Bruce was back on his feet again. They told him to go home, no problem, they had everything wrapped up tight. Bruce couldn’t remember where he’d parked his car and he decided that driving in his condition was a bad idea after all.

He decided to take the bus instead. The bus didn’t stop anywhere near Wayne Manor, so he started to walk. All in all, it wasn’t one of his brighter ideas. But, in the end, it was probably Jonathan’s fault and Jonathan had been his worst idea of all.

*~*~*~*

The phone call was untraceable. One of those little tricks that Harley had learned over the years along with how to use explosives and the art of harlequin makeup.

“Mista J. I’ve got something you want.” She tried not to let her eagerness come through in her voice. He’d take her back for sure after this. 

“Harley, Harley, Harley, I’m still mad at you.” In her opinion, the Joker didn’t sound his usual jovial self. She hoped it was because he was missing her, but she wouldn’t have bet money on it. 

She took a deep breath and put on a grin, even though he couldn’t see it over the phone. “I’ve caught Bruce Wayne and I thought I’d save him for you, puddin’ but if you don’t want him, I’m sure the Scarecrow would be interested.” The Scarecrow, as things stood, was currently bottled up somewhere inside Doctor Crane and Jonathan was up to his elbows in chemicals, cursing and breaking down, in the lab amongst the mess of Ivy’s plants. She wasn’t sure that bringing him Bruce Wayne would improve matters in the slightest.

Besides, even if her suspicions as to what the prince of Gotham got up to at night were unfounded, the Joker would still be pleased with her. He didn’t want to know about who Batman was, and she was happy enough to keep her own ignorance, god knew that Jonathan wasn’t quite right anymore and could have been hallucinating, or just plain wrong. But, either way, she’d caught a nice, fat prize.

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone and for a moment she thought that he’d hung up on her. “Well, now that’s a whole new, shiny, kettle of fish, isn’t it?” And there it was: the glee in his voice that made her toes curl in her shoes and brought a genuine smile to her own face. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

She shrugged and stuffed the phone between shoulder and ear so she could prod a mostly unconscious Wayne with her free hand. He groaned and his head lolled back on his neck. She’d gone looking for him, on suspicion that Jonathan was right and she owed this man a good beating, just for being an asshole. Having found him, she’d been struck by the utter potential of the situation. And really, if he was just going to wander around outside Gotham, it was his own damn fault for getting kidnapped.

“You wanna talk to him?” She put the phone next to Wayne’s mouth and kicked him in the leg. “Say hello to Mista J.” Wayne let out another low moan and struggled to lift his head. She’d hardly hit him at all and he’d dropped like a fat man on a dodgy chair. Harley brought the phone back to her own ear. “Whoops,” she said jovially. “I don’t think he’s in a chatty mood.”

The Joker laughed. “And Ivy? And your new friend the Scarecrow?”

She bit her lip. “Ivy’s in Arkham.”

“Oh, pooh.” She could picture him waving a hand in dismissal. “She’ll be out in a week.” 

Harley smiled, relieved. He was right. He was always right, wasn’t he? “Cr-” She paused. Doctor Crane wasn’t who the Joker would be interested in. “’Crow,” she amended, “is kind of…” she twirled a finger next to her head. “He’s kinda loopy right now. But you’re good at science stuff, you could help him out.”

Another long pause. “I don’t think I will, doll. You, me, and dear Mister Wayne will be busy enough. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun and taking care of an invalid isn’t much of that, is it?”

She mulled it over for a second. “I don’t think I should just leave him…” Harley thought of Jonathan, black and blue, but not beaten, not by a long shot. She couldn’t really help him. The Joker was still right. “No, you’re right, Mista J. He’ll be better off on his own.”

“Good girl.” 

Harley beamed like all her birthdays and Christmases come at once.

*~*~*~*

Jonathan threw the beaker against the wall and it shattered, spraying the useless antidote all over the plants. They shifted slightly, leaving light trails behind them and he shot them a nasty look. “Have it then,” he said. “For all the good it will do you.” There were flashes at the periphery of his vision and when he looked back at his little lab, it was awash in static and haloes. 

After the last disaster, he had no desire to relinquish his mind back to the Scarecrow. If he never saw that personality again, it would be too soon. What he wanted was to get rid of the damnable effects of the fear toxin. He wanted the flashes, the hallucinations, the nausea and the myriad of other symptoms gone. Part of him wished fervently that he’d never invented the damn thing. As it was, he would continue to frustrate himself with all the possibilities. What he wouldn’t have given for a few human test subjects. Hell, at this point he would have suffered for lab rats. Just so he didn’t have to stick the needle in his own vein.

He briefly debated the merits of going out and rounding up a few of the gas attack victims from the Narrows, but dismissed the idea as foolish to the extreme. Not only was he in no condition to round up anything, never mind terrified, dangerous human beings, but he had no where to store them while he worked on possibilities. Ivy’s plants might hold someone down while he worked, but, then again, they might just eat the person, and that was useless.

Jonathan rubbed the last of Ivy’s salve into his ribs and buttoned up his shirt again. It made the fabric stick to his skin, but he’d be worse than stupid if he sat about bare-chested whilst working with chemicals. The bruises were fading fast and the cuts on his hands and arms had scabbed over completely, but without the salve he would have to wait out the remainder of the healing process on his own.

Options, options, options. He could think of a dozen ways to make this antidote but only one of them would be likely to work. Some of them might kill him. Some of them might break him even further. He wasn’t quite desperate enough to risk it yet. So he’d sit, making antidotes, and possibilities, until he could think of something to do other than grit his teeth and pray. For all the good it would do him.

He got up and turned the television on. Nothing happened, so he slapped the side of it with his hand and it briefly grew and changed in size and color before turning back into nothing but a television. While hitting it hurt like nobody’s business and made him curse aloud, precious little else happened. He balanced precariously on one foot and kicked it. It sputtered into life and he squinted through the static. Of course, a soap opera. How helpful. He moved the antennae around, searching for something that even resembled the news.

“Bruce Wayne, last seen at the building site of Wayne Manor has been kidnapped by a man calling himself the Joker. Reports indicate that he is heavily concussed but alive. Police are working to get him back.”

Jonathan turned the television off and sat down on the moldering mattress. He took several deep breaths and then let himself flop back so he wouldn’t have to sit any more. So, Harley had abandoned him. Why not? At least she’d be happy with the Joker; for a while anyway. She couldn’t help him and, with Ivy in Arkham, their plans for teamwork had fallen through. Jonathan made it a habit not to rely too heavily on anyone as he’d found from past experiences that those were inevitably the people who either let you down, or let you down and then kicked you while you were there. At least Harley had the decency to just leave and not make a production out of it. She’d left him the lab, and a warm place to sleep, which was more than he could have asked of most people.

It seemed like far too much effort to get back up again, so Jonathan curled up onto his side and pulled the ragged, dirty scrap of fabric masquerading as a blanket over himself. His stomach growled, reminding him that his last meal had been almost an entire day ago and he was used to little food, but – especially in his condition – no food at all wasn’t going to suffice. He curled up a little tighter and shut his eyes. If he napped for a little bit, the hunger pangs and the aching might ease up and he’d feel more rested, and ready to get back to his experiments.

It was the fault of the gas that when he shut his eyes all he could think of was the look on Bruce Wayne’s face and the gentleness of his hands as he lied to Jonathan and pretended he cared.

*~*~*~*

Bruce woke up in a hijacked car, somewhere in transit. If his head had hurt before, this was a whole new level of hell. He bit back on a groan and cautiously opened his eyes.

“Welcome back to the land of the livin’.” Harley Quinn grinned at him through the greasepaint and took a sharp left. “An’ welcome to the first day of your kidnapping. Not sure a guy like you bothers to watch the news, but I’m Harley Quinn, and you’re about to meet my boss, Mista J. The Joker…” She beamed at him and spared a hand from the wheel to tug at the rope tying him securely to the seat. “So don’t be getting any fancy ideas there, sugar.”

He didn’t bother replying beyond letting his head tip back against the seat while he tried to gather his scattered mind back to himself. He wondered if this was what it was like to be Jonathan Crane.

Being tied to the car seat didn’t worry him overly much. Despite her strength and ability to tie a decent basic knot, knot tying obviously wasn’t her forte and he was pretty sure that, if he was careful not to attract her attention, he would be able to squirm out of the ropes. However, being the Joker’s captive in his current state was not something that he felt would be good for either his concussion or his general well-being. 

Bruce tested the bonds on the hand furthest away from Harley and she smacked him, hard enough to set his head reeling again.

“Now, now,” she said sweetly. “None of that.”

Bruce tried very hard not to retch and waiting for the spinning in his head to ease. They pulled up to a warehouse before he was even close to ready to try again and through the mud-spattered window Bruce could see the Joker waiting for them.

He didn’t listen to what the Joker had to say, it was hard enough to stay on his feet, and when the Joker realized it, he had a closer look at Bruce’s face and his uneven pupils and declared his prisoner uninteresting in the extreme.

Bruce was certain he’d been in worse situations in his life. He could, offhand, think of over a good half-dozen of them. That said, he’d never been concussed while he was in them and it was a handicap he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

Harley Quinn and the Joker tied him up in a small, dank room to some pipes that leaked out, alternately, freezing cold water, and water that was scaling hot. He’d scraped his wrists raw trying to squirm out of the ropes and hadn’t gained any ground for his troubles. Without Batman, without his tricks and traps, Bruce Wayne was feeling about as useful as any other of the people he’d helped. Since he couldn’t escape without something to cut the ropes on he needed a plan but he couldn’t focus long enough to think of anything and despite his own predicament, Bruce couldn’t help wonder what had become of the Scarecrow.

*~*~*~*

Jonathan staggered to the bathroom, shuffling as the ground seemed to move beneath him, vibrant colors and creatures that weren’t there crawling over his feet. He dropped to his knees in front of the cracked toilet, gripped the side with one hand, held his hair back with the other, and vomited. The anti-toxin came up first, a sickly green color, mixed with blood. Even when Jonathan was only bringing up bile and spit his stomach continued to heave unhappily. He lifted his head and hit the flush with one hand. Nothing happened. Jonathan groaned and let himself crumple. He collapsed on the cooler tiles of the floor and pressed his face to the dirty ground trying not to scream when even the air felt as though it was trying to scrape in through his skin, infecting him.

“Experiment two,” he said, through clenched teeth. “A resounding failure. No psychological effects, but the subject, less than a minute after drinking the solution started vomiting. The entirety of the solution was brought back up. The subject may now be bleeding internally. The subject is still hallucinating and is experiencing all other previous symptoms including irrational panic.”

He coughed experimentally and spat onto the floor. It looked like his spittle was tinged pink with blood but he couldn’t trust his vision and he didn’t feel any worse than he had before he’d taken a second batch of antidote. Jonathan slowly pushed himself back into an upright position. His stomach churned, grumbling its disagreement at being so abused, but it was just another thing in a long list of physical complaints, so Jonathan ignored it and dragged himself to his feet.

It was a good walk to the lab, over vines and plants that still didn’t seem sure that they weren’t allowed to eat Jonathan. He couldn’t quite make it in his state, stumbling over the smallest of roots, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other groping blindly at the air. Jonathan made it as far as the doorway before he collapsed, lying amongst the rotting leaves and debris of the greenhouse. He thought about getting up again, but it seemed like far too much effort, so Jonathan just shut his eyes and let the blanket of greenery cover him as he gratefully passed out.

*~*~*~*

Bruce got his one and only opportunity when the guard came to feed him and make sure he was still breathing. It wasn’t something he was going to be proud of later, but he wasn’t Batman now, he was Bruce Wayne, and it was simple enough for Bruce Wayne to buy his way out of the mess. 

The thing he’d noticed most about henchmen was that they weren’t too bright at the best of times. The Joker might have had a Grand Plan, and Harley might have been on board, but the guard was a criminal because crime pays. A personal cheque – and the Joker hadn’t even taken his personal effects, that’s how capable he thought Bruce Wayne – for an obscene amount of money and the door was left unlocked, his ropes untied and Bruce could slip out of the warehouse and steal one of the many cars sitting around.

It was the least glorious escape he’d ever undertaken and Bruce, swerving wildly away from the Joker’s warehouse, felt a little ashamed. He called Alfred from the carphone and left a completely incoherent message which he also felt a little ashamed of. The whole situation was his fault and his head was so scrambled that the only thing he could think of to do was to find Crane, or the Scarecrow, or whoever else was inhabiting Jonathan Crane’s body, and fix things.

*~*~*~*

“Experiment three,” said Jonathan, crawling towards the mattress. “It feels like a failure.”

He paused to dry heave but he’d injected this batch of antidote and there was nothing left in his stomach to come up. Jonathan kept crawling, dragging himself over broken glass and fertilizer. It was not going to be a noble death, he could promise himself that much. Of all the ways that he hadn’t wanted to go down, in a dirty little greenhouse, half-starved and mostly insane, poisoned by his own failed, self-tested experiment, was rather high on the list.

“The subject might die here,” Jonathan said. “I think I might die.”

*~*~*~*

Bruce stared at the jungle of plants and felt, somehow, as though they were staring back. “I need to find Crane,” he said, stupidly. “He’s no good to you.” There was no reply and he felt foolish for half expecting some sort of reply. He started a slow stumble through the minature jungle. The plants moved when they shouldn’t have, but they left him alone. Only occasionally rising to trip him or to scratch and catch on his skin and clothing. Surface wounds, nothing he couldn’t brush away, but a subtle threat that he would be foolish to ignore. 

Bruce tripped over the entryway to the greenhouse. It was so overgrown and he was disorientated enough that he hadn’t even noticed it. The air was so close that he thought he might retch from the pressure and the stench. Of all the places he’d seen villains hiding in, warehouses, fortresses, little bunkers and in the sewers, this had to be one of the worst. The rot and decay was overwhelming and under that was the reek of spilled chemicals, vomit and sickness. He put a hand over his nose and mouth and walked over the broken glass and damp leaves, further into Poison Ivy’s lair.

It didn’t take him long to find Crane.

Crane was lying half-on, half-off a filthy little mattress. It looked as though he’d been crawling to it when he’d collapsed. His face was pale and bloodless and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face and neck that glistened unhealthily in the bad light.

Bruce put his fingers over the pulse in Crane’s neck and was surprised to find it. It was sluggish, and for a second that was jarring ; he was used to feeling rabbit-fast panic against his hands, and mouth and skin, but then it picked up again. Bruce looked up to see Crane’s eyes open, wide and terrified, a second before Crane’s head jerked back and he started to convulse, falling completely off the mattress, spine bowing back in a painful arch. The convulsions only lasted for a minute or so and Bruce was powerless to do anything but watch until they were done. He checked Crane’s pulse again and it steadied and slowed but Crane didn’t open his eyes again.

Bruce dragged him onto the mattress and laid him on his side, curling up behind him. He tucked one hand up under Crane’s shirt and slid the other arm under Crane’s head, curling around again to cover his head, as he usually slept. Bruce could feel the heat of Crane’s bruises against his palm, warm on his stomach, and Crane smelt of blood as well as chemicals and sickness.

“We’ll just wait here,” Bruce said, and then, when Crane didn’t reply; “I’ll look after you this time.”


	9. The Chemicals Between Us

Jonathan had had better days in his life, but waking up – and if he had been tired of waking up before, now he was desperately grateful – straightjacketed and back in the padded room in the Batcave actually ranked rather well. Someone had stuck a pillow under his head and dragged a blanket over him and yes, his shoulders, back, stomach and sides were sore from lying down in a straightjacket for an unknown quantity of hours, but he was still himself and he was still alive. The door to the cell was open. Jonathan didn’t bother himself with thinking of escape. There was so little point.

“Jonathan?” Bruce Wayne was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He looked like hell.

“Oh,” Jonathan said. He carefully maneuvered himself upright but didn’t bother standing. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Yes,” he said finally and then; “How did I get here?” Jonathan thought about asking how Bruce had escaped from the Joker and decided he didn’t care. He just didn’t have enough energy to deal with more than one thing at a time.

Bruce shrugged. “You had a fit,” he said, which didn’t answer the question but seemed a fair enough thing to say. 

Jonathan stretched as best he could. Someone had cleaned him up, bandaged him in a few places and rubbed ointment into his bruises. He was hungry and tired but the situation was manageable. “Psychogenic non-epileptic seizure. I’m not surprised.” Bruce was looking at him pityingly and Jonathan wanted to hit him. Jonathan settled for leaning back against the wall, which was still stained with his own dried blood, and ignored Bruce.

“Now what?” 

Jonathan didn’t know why Bruce was in the cell with him, or why he wanted to talk, but he wasn’t a doctor anymore and he wasn’t getting paid to delve into Bruce’s issues. “Now I sit here, not talking to you if at all possible, and go – how shall I put this so a lay person will understand? – bug-fuck crazy.”

Bruce rested his chin on his knees. “What about the cure?” He, in turn, seemed bound and determined to ignore Jonathan’s unsubtle requests for solitude.

“What cure?” Jonathan asked bitterly. “If you’re worried about what will become of the good citizens of Gotham, I wouldn’t. Anyone who hasn’t had an antidote by now is going to be too far gone to save.”

“Except for you.”

Jonathan snorted. “Of course.” He had a sneaking suspicion that his reaction to the gas might have been set apart from most everyone else’s because he’d been exposed in small amounts over time and because he wasn’t sane to begin with. None of the truly insane patients ever reacted normally to the drugs. The thought was neither comforting nor alarming. 

Bruce sighed and Jonathan bit down on the urge to yell at him. He imagined he’d be doing a lot of that when his mind finally snapped and it didn’t seem sensible to use up all his irritation and anger before the time came. They sat in the cell together, Bruce just watching Jonathan until Jonathan’s skin crawled with the attention.

“What?” Jonathan finally snapped.

“Do you think you could find the cure for yourself?” Bruce asked slowly, like he’d been thinking about it for a while but was having trouble. He was rather seriously concussed, Jonathan conceded.

Jonathan hoped that when he did lose his mind he would have a panic induced heart-attack early on. He decided not to eat anything, it might even the odds of his dying quickly. “Perhaps,” he said. “There are a few more variations I can try before the answer becomes no.”

Bruce nodded as though Jonathan had said something momentous. “Do you want something to eat first?” He uncurled from his corner and came over to Jonathan. Jonathan was ashamed when he flinched away and Bruce dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” Bruce said and sat down again, this time next to Jonathan.

“I’m not,” Jonathan said and turned so Bruce could get to the buckles on the back of the jacket. “And I find your apologies tiring so you needn’t waste your time.” He stretched properly when Bruce unbuckled him, quietly folding the jacket. Bruce looked awkward and unsure and it made Jonathan feel much better. It also made him want to provoke Bruce, push him down further. Jonathan leaned over and kissed Bruce then stood up, brushing at his pants as though he could smooth out the wrinkles. As schemes went, it wasn’t a very good one, or a very subtle one, but Bruce seemed utterly blindsided by it and the overall plan had the advantage of being very close to everything Jonathan could hope for at this time of his life.

“Jonathan,” Bruce said and then stopped. He got to his feet slowly, using the wall for support. Jonathan pushed his advantage, crowding in, pressing Bruce up against the padding and kissed him again. 

“We’re going to go up to your caravan,” Jonathan said, slipping his hands up under Bruce’s soft t-shirt, digging his fingers into the muscle of Bruce’s stomach and chest. “And I’m going to fuck you, and then I’m going back to the lab and trying one more time.” Bruce swallowed hard. His hands were shaking when he reached up to brush Jonathan’s hair off his face and his left pupil was blown. Jonathan smiled and stood on his toes so he could mouth over the bruises on Bruce’s temple and cheek. “I assume, of course, that you have another caravan.”

“This is a bad idea,” Bruce said, but it almost sounded like a question and he kissed Jonathan right after.

Jonathan pulled away and didn’t look back to see if Bruce was following him. “Of course it is,” he said, picking his way carefully across the batcave. “But if I’m going to lose my mind, I’m going to do it on my own terms and those terms include fucking you, and a shower before I experiment on myself.” He glanced back and bared his teeth at Bruce in a nasty smile. “I promise not to hit you again,” he said.

Bruce put his hand around Jonathan’s wrist when they were outside, but Jonathan wasn’t trying to escape and Bruce let him lead so Jonathan didn’t mention it. Even if the Scarecrow could fight Batman, Jonathan Crane couldn’t fight Bruce Wayne and expect to win. He didn’t need to. Bruce went, let Jonathan shove him onto the bed and crawl over him, dragging the t-shirt over his head and dragging his nails over Bruce’s chest, biting at the bruises on his jaw. It was the curse of Jonathan’s life that he was not the same size as Bruce or Ra’s and that he could be held down, or he could be beaten so easily and he didn’t want Bruce to simply allow him to do as he pleased. He got up, stripping off his shirt and socks and went to Bruce’s wardrobe. It wasn’t ideal but Jonathan picked out two sturdy-looking ties and went back to the bed, leaving his trousers on the floor.

“I don’t think so,” Bruce said, and Jonathan sneered at him. 

“Try not to be an idiot,” Jonathan said. He tied Bruce’s wrists to the headboard and Bruce looked utterly lost and bewildered. Jonathan wondered if he was afraid. He hoped so. Jonathan stripped Bruce and paused, sitting back on his heels, to simply take in the view for a moment. They were both bruised to hell and back but it certainly didn’t spoil the view and the knowledge that he’d put some of those bruises onto Bruce’s body actually made it a little sweeter. 

Bruce tugged on the ties, hard enough to rattle the wall of the caravan until Jonathan put a hand on Bruce’s chest and said, “Shhh,” and, surprisingly, Bruce did as he was told.

Bruce watched, hesitantly, as Jonathan reached for the same cold gel that they had used before, in the same little drawer in this mirror image caravan. Jonathan would have preferred a little more time to just enjoy everything because all things weighed against each other, Bruce was still an incredibly attractive man and Jonathan suspected he was rather going to enjoy himself, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. He warmed the gel between his palms then tapped Bruce’s knees with a knuckle. Bruce took the hint and pulled his leg up. He pushed a finger into Bruce, thumb smoothing gently over the delicate skin of his perineum and Bruce’s leg jerked, banging against Jonathan’s side.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said again. Jonathan shifted up so he could kiss Bruce to shut him up and pushed another finger in to make Bruce groan into his mouth. His eyes were shut so Jonathan bit him to make him open them again and twisted his fingers to make Bruce stop thinking about talking. It didn’t work either. “I do care, you know?”

Jonathan flinched. “Shut up,” he hissed. “God, just shut up.” He gave himself a couple of strokes, smearing the gel over his erection and wasn’t gentle about pulling his fingers out, or about pushing Bruce’s legs apart and leaning over him, one hand fisted in Bruce’s hair, the other balancing on his grip on Bruce’s bicep and pushing his cock into Bruce’s body. 

Bruce’s hands clenched around the loop of the ties and he let out a pained grunt. He opened his mouth to say something else and Jonathan let go of Bruce’s hair and put his hand over Bruce’s mouth, slowly moving his hips. They might not have had time for many preliminaries or for anything to come after, but Jonathan was determined that the actual fucking would go at his own pace. So little else in his life did. Bruce’s legs hooked around his back, and Jonathan slid forwards, startling a groan out of them both. He traded his previous hold for putting both hands flat on the mattress and pushing into Bruce as hard as he could.

There was a loud crack as Bruce pulled on one of the ties hard enough to break the cheap headboard but he didn’t push Jonathan away, he caught hold of the back of Jonathan’s neck and brought him down for a kiss. “I didn’t tell you before,” Bruce said, against Jonathan’s mouth. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t enjoy watching the way you hurt.”

Jonathan’s stomach bottomed out. “Shut up,” he begged.

Bruce bit down on Jonathan’s bottom lip and licked delicately at the blood that seeped out of all the cracks. “I like watching you break and I like breaking you.” His thumb rubbed over the bruises around Jonathan’s throat and Jonathan couldn’t catch his breath. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t enjoy making you like it when it’s pretty, same as you do when it’s ugly as everything else.”

Jonathan tipped forward, resting his head against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce ran his fingers into Jonathan’s hair, and he couldn’t pet away the headache that was starting to build behind Jonathan’s eyes, but it felt nice. “Jonathan…”

Jonathan pulled away, sitting down next to Bruce and pulled the duvet up over himself, leaving Bruce to sit up and untie his own wrist from the headboard. He scrubbed at his face tiredly and didn’t bother to shrug Bruce off when he put an arm over his shoulders.

“You were right,” Jonathan said bitterly. “This was a bad idea.”

Bruce smiled at him with his million-dollar charm and his concussion that made him stupid and so easy to manipulate and Jonathan wanted to believe the lie. “I don’t know,” Bruce said, “I was enjoying it.”

Jonathan choked out an incredulous laugh and put his hands over his face so he didn’t have to look at Bruce. It made it a little easier. “Good,” he said and then wished he hadn’t. He was losing track of what his own intentions were and when Bruce tugged his hands away from his face and kissed him, slick and gentle, Jonathan wanted it, and then didn’t and hung in his own indecisiveness, letting himself be kissed. “Just put me back in the jacket and back in the safebox,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“What about the cure?” Bruce asked, as though it was that easy.

Jonathan continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “When I snap…I don’t want to live like that and I believe that’s your modus operandi, protecting citizens of Gotham from whatever preys on them.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Bruce said dismissively. “You still have time. You’re coherent now.”

“One of us has to be.” Jonathan, for lack of a better idea, curled into Bruce. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, their knees banged together and Jonathan was too angular and Bruce was too solid but he liked the pressure of Bruce’s arm around his shoulders and the muscle against his cheek and side. It was comforting, and infuriating because of it, but Jonathan was too tired to be angry. 

Bruce pulled away and Jonathan decided he’d had enough and just crumpled onto the mattress and curled up into a ball. Bruce got out of the bed and pulled on his jeans and shirt. “Get up.”

“Why?”

“Get up or I’ll get you up,” Bruce threatened, and then did as he’d said, pulling Jonathan out of the bed, and shoving his clothes at him. When Jonathan made no effort to move, Bruce grabbed his chin, hard, and made Jonathan look at him. “Get dressed. We’re going to the lab.”

Jonathan mustered a half-hearted sneer. He was sticky and still half hard but doing anything other than just going back to sleep until he lost his mind again only made him more tired. “Make me,” he said, and didn’t flinch.

Bruce hesitated for one long second then he let go of Jonathan’s chin, picked up his shirt and set it over his shoulders before gently taking one of his arms and feeding it through the sleeve. Jonathan wondered if the hesitation had been that second between violence or pity and decided he’d rather have had the violence. He shoved at Bruce, who didn’t move at all, causing Jonathan to stumble backwards. 

Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and dressed himself, not bothering to button his shirt. “I don’t want to do it,” he said.

“What?”

“I. Don’t. Want. To. Do. It,” Jonathan repeated. “I won’t kill myself for your edification.”

Bruce brushed a lock of hair out of Jonathan’s face. “No, but you’ll do it on the off-chance that you’re just as smart as you thought.” He did up the first button on Jonathan’s shirt and smiled a little to himself when Jonathan swatted his hand away and did up the rest on his own. “You came up with the basic ideas when you were completely gone.”

“And then I turned myself into the Scarecrow,” Jonathan snapped.

Bruce shrugged. “I can beat him back out of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jonathan managed a proper sneer that time. “Actually, I wasn’t finished my thought. First I turned myself into the Scarecrow, then I nearly poisoned myself, twice, and now I’m tired. You win, I’m broken.”

“I know.” Bruce leaned back against the kitchen cabinet and regarded Jonathan thoughtfully. “How do you think you got here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know what happened to you,” Bruce clarified. “I held you while you fitted.”

Jonathan looked away. “I see.” That Bruce had seen him brought so low made him grind his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. “Well…”

Bruce tipped his head to one side. “I promised to look after you.” Jonathan had no recollection of any sort of pledge and he hated himself a little bit more for wishing Bruce had given it.

“Fuck you,” Jonathan said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t want your pity.”

Bruce shrugged again. “Whichever way you’d prefer,” he said. 

Jonathan had a moment to be confused before Bruce was moving, away from the counter, one hand twisting Jonathan’s arm up behind his back, the other on the back of his neck, pushing him forwards and out of the caravan. Jonathan squirmed unhappily but let himself be manhandled. Bruce could only push him so far before Jonathan had to actually mix chemicals of his own impetus. What he wasn’t expecting was for Bruce to kick the door of the caravan shut behind them and then let go.

Jonathan straightened up, frowning, and set his clothing to rights, rubbing his arm. Bruce gestured at the wide open space of the Wayne Manor grounds. “Go on then,” Bruce said.

“What?” Jonathan asked.

“Either you come with me and work on your own cure or you leave and tear yourself apart on your own terms. I’ll help you; I won’t be your executioner.” Bruce leaned back against the door of the trailer and Jonathan realized that Bruce was unsteady on his feet, probably dizzy.

Jonathan took an uncertain step away from Bruce. “Why?” he asked, taking a half step back and hesitating.

“Because I help people, Jonathan, and you’re not good people, but you’re people.” Bruce grinned at him. “And I told you, I care about you.”

Jonathan cringed. “What happens if I can find the cure?”

“Arkham.”

“Do you know what they’ll do to me there?” Jonathan demanded.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Nothing worse than what you did you your patients, I’d guess.”

*~*~*~*

It took Jonathan the better part of four days to make the next batch of antidote and the dizziness, halos, hallucinations, nausea etc. came and went as they pleased, slowing progress. Bruce had the good courtesy to leave him alone except for dragging him back to the padded room to sleep and up to the caravan to eat. It was actually the best care that Jonathan had had in years, since even alone before he went mad he had been prone to forgetting to eat and sleep when working. He complained, of course, since it wouldn’t do to show his captor too much appreciation, and sleeping in a straightjacket wasn’t getting any more comfortable, but it was nice, in a twisted sort of way.

The final solution was a noxious-smelling potion that honest-to-god smoked in the beaker and glowed fluorescent lime. Jonathan wasn’t sure how he felt about drinking something that looked radioactive and spent an hour just staring at it. He wasn’t doing anything other than that when Bruce came down to check on him.

Bruce’s bruising had gone from purple to a hideous green, yellowed at the edges and his concussion seemed much better. He settled down into the chair next to Jonathan, looking unfairly put together in pressed trousers and a shirt that had a tie, and cufflinks and wasn’t three days in the wearing and too big to boot. Jonathan pushed his hair – too long now, desperately needing a trim – out of his eyes and flicked a ragged, dirty fingernail at the beaker, pinging against it softly in the quiet rustling of the batcave.

“Is that it?” Bruce asked, peering at the solution. Jonathan didn’t bother to warn him about the smell; Bruce figured it out soon enough when he got his nose right next to it.

Jonathan fidgeted with his right cuff. It was chemical stained and frayed from his worrying at it and it hung down over his fingertips. He rolled it back up over his elbow and shrugged. His own bruising was still a reddish purple, fading slowly. “I suppose so. I’ve been wrong before.” His knee kept jiggling up and down without his say so but Jonathan was too full of nervous energy to do anything other than squirm in his chair and stare at the beaker.

He wasn’t expecting Bruce to put one annoyingly large hand on his knee to still it, or for him to slide that hand a little higher, not demanding, not indecent, just resting mid-thigh. “Probably best to just get it over with,” Bruce said and he sounded almost sympathetic.

Jonathan had a few choice things to say to that, but he bit his tongue, wished Bruce wasn’t watching so he could hold his nose, and drank the beaker down until nothing was left but a ring of pale green foam at the bottom. It tasted slimy and Jonathan nearly choked it back up again. By a massive force of will he clamped a hand over his mouth and made it settle. By the time he had stopped gagging it was too late to point out that Bruce had his hand resting heavy and warm at the back of Jonathan’s neck, rubbing gently. He settled for shifting his shoulders but Bruce didn’t seem inclined to move.

“Now what?” Bruce asked and Jonathan shuffled just a little closer so their legs pressed together from hip to knee. 

“We wait patiently and see what part of my mind I lose next,” Jonathan said, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thought vaguely about throwing up or at least spitting to rid himself of the taste, but it didn’t seem like the dignified thing to do. “You might want to put me in the straightjacket.”

Bruce tilted his head and kissed the corner of Jonathan’s mouth. “If I need to,” he said. Jonathan decided that if neither of them mentioned it, it would be okay for him to rest his head against Bruce’s shoulder.

He didn’t realize how tired he was until he dozed off, Bruce’s hand petting through his hair. Jonathan jerked awake again only a few minutes later. “Did it work?” Bruce asked, voice a low rumble through Jonathan’s cheek and the delicate skin of his temple.

Jonathan sat up with an embarrassed cough and surreptitiously wiped at his mouth to make sure he hadn’t drooled in his sleep. He hadn’t, thank God. “I don’t think it’s done anything yet.” He didn’t feel any different. Not better, not worse. 

They waited until Jonathan’s muscles all locked at once and he nearly jerked right out of his chair. Only Bruce’s arm around him stopped him from toppling right over onto the stone floor. Above them the sound of construction rumbled on and it suddenly seemed too loud to Jonathan. His teeth ground together so hard he could feel it in the hinges of his jaw and in the back of his head, flashing pain down his molars into his neck. There was a scream knotted up in his throat, caught there with bile and the slick taste of the solution.

Bruce eased him down to the floor, keeping one hand tucked behind Jonathan’s head so he wouldn’t concuss himself if he started to convulse. Jonathan didn’t. As quickly as his muscles had locked they relaxed and Jonathan blacked out, abruptly tasting spun sugar in his mouth and smelling something like strawberry jam on warm, buttered toast.

*~*~*~*

Jonathan came to around twenty minutes after he had passed out. Bruce had considered putting him in the straightjacket while he was unconscious, but it seemed a little unnecessary. Scarecrow or not, Jonathan was unarmed and while that hadn’t stopped him the last time, he seemed far more resigned to his captivity. That, and Bruce could always beat the shit out of him if he tried anything.

“How’s…” Bruce couldn’t think of a good word to encompass everything that was wrong with Jonathan, so he just waved his hand in an illustrative fashion.

Jonathan held his hands out in front of him and they were steady. He looked up at Bruce and cocked his head to one side, a little exaggerated. It was a gesture that Bruce had only ever seen on the Scarecrow but the frown – a little cynical, a little petulant – that creased up his nose, was all Jonathan. Bruce had never quite gone in for the idea that someone could have crazy eyes or that the eyes were any sort of window to anything other than pigment, but Jonathan looked more focused at the very least. It was a little intimidating to be on the receiving end of such a shrewd look.

All things considered, Bruce wasn’t expecting it precisely, but he was ready for it when Jonathan pushed the blankets aside and came for him. He caught hold of Jonathan’s wrists and used his own momentum to spin them and slam Jonathan back into the counter. Jonathan head-butted him in the nose, sending Bruce staggering back, eyes watering. It gave Jonathan the opening to grab him by the shirt-front and push him over a chair, sending them both crashing to the floor. He grabbed onto Jonathan’s throat and when Jonathan leaned down and kissed him, he was surprised enough that he tightened his grip rather than loosening it and was rewarded with a knee to the solar plexus and Jonathan biting down on his lip hard enough to break the skin.

“I suppose,” Jonathan said, gasping, when Bruce got his own knee up and shoved Jonathan off him, knocking Jonathan’s side into the leg of the bed. “That I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to want to kill someone and fuck them at the same time.” He clawed Bruce’s shirt open as Bruce dragged him to his feet and shoved him up against the wall of the caravan, knocking a bland rural landscape painting askew. 

Bruce dug his fingers into Jonathan’s thighs, lifting him up slightly, so he didn’t have to stoop to bite bruises into Jonathan’s throat. Jonathan squirmed, hooking one leg around his hips, nails raising welts and little cuts on Bruce’s chest and shoulders.

“Not the Scarecrow?” Bruce demanded, letting go with one hand so he could pull Jonathan’s head back further by the hair.

Jonathan pushed off from the wall, knocking them both down again, his arm sliding across the countertop, knocking appliances off onto the floor, Bruce’s shoulder catching on the closet door, breaking one of the hinges. “Do I sound like the Scarecrow to you?” Jonathan asked, crawling on top of him, which gave Bruce the advantage he needed to hook his fingers into Jonathan’s trousers and shove them down his hips. His skin was already red with what were going to be some really spectacular bruises and Bruce grinned despite himself.

“I can’t tell,” Bruce said and thumped his own head back against the floor when Jonathan didn’t bother with buttons and zippers and just shoved his hand down the front of Bruce’s slacks.

Jonathan’s wrist got in the way when Bruce undid his own trousers so he knocked Jonathan off again, pushing him into the desk. Bruce shoved his slacks and boxers down his hips and pinned Jonathan to the floor, the safety plug of a knocked over lamp digging into his calf and a broken plastic cup cutting into Jonathan’s back. Jonathan arched up into him. He had a split lip again and half the buttons on his shirt had been ripped off. He looked three-quarters crazy and entirely together. Bruce knocked the whole bedside table over reaching for the gel. 

“It’s an alter ego, Bruce,” Jonathan said, digging a heel into Bruce’s back as he lifted his hips obligingly. His teeth left the side of Bruce’s jaw stinging and sore by the time Bruce had slicked his own cock and Bruce tangled his gel-slick hand into Jonathan’s hair and pinned his head to the floor before pushing into him.

Bruce shoved his hips forward hard enough that Jonathan scraped a few inches forward across the carpet and Bruce could already feel a burn starting in his knees as he bent Jonathan’s leg further up and did it again. “It wasn’t before,” he said, voice rough and muffled in the curve of Jonathan’s shoulder as he laid new bruises down there too.

Jonathan’s fingers dug painfully into Bruce’s bicep and the back of his neck. “It is now,” he said and then made an involuntary groan when Bruce rocked back onto his heels, pulling Jonathan with him until Jonathan was straddling him then back down still further until he was on his back, Jonathan bloody and beautiful above him.

“Good,” Bruce said and Jonathan ground down onto him, hands braced on Bruce’s chest, muscles in his thighs standing out as he lifted himself up so only the head of Bruce’s dick was in him. Bruce lifted his hips and pushed down on Jonathan’s hips and Jonathan’s head tipped forward on his neck. Bruce pulled on the back of Jonathan's shirt, straining the last few buttons, forcing Jonathan back. "Like this," he said, so he could see Jonathan stretched out over him and could count the marks he'd put onto him; so he could watch the flush on Jonathan's face and chest and see his cock curve up towards his stomach, not rubbing against anything except Jonathan's own stomach.

Jonathan leaned back, biting his own lip and shuddered at the change of angle, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and neck, legs starting to shake a little. Bruce pushed into him, one hand tight around one of Jonathan’s wrists, and Jonathan shuddered again and came. He tipped forward again, elbow digging into Bruce’s side, belly slick against Bruce’s skin and Bruce kissed him to taste Jonathan’s sweat and the blood from his lip. With Jonathan Crane, together and sane as he might ever be, tight around him and shaking and fucked out above him Bruce groaned into Jonathan’s mouth and came.

Jonathan slid off him slowly, wincing, but there was a smug grin on the edges of his smile and Bruce wanted to fuck him again until the expression was gone, but he was sore and the caravan was a disaster and, Christ, he could only hope the construction crew didn’t come to see what the hell had happened to him.

“This is…” Jonathan waved an expressive hand at the destruction of the trailer. “I suppose the medical term for it is ‘a touch disturbed.’”

Bruce dragged the blanket and a pillow down off the bed. “We should do this again.” He shifted and winced. “Maybe with more sex and less throwing each other into shit.”

“Mmm.” Jonathan tucked his head into the curve of Bruce’s shoulder. “I liked that part.”

“Of course you did,” Bruce said. He prodded at one of Jonathan’s bruises until Jonathan hissed and swatted his hand away. 

“Sadist,” Jonathan said contentedly.

Bruce chuckled and prodded the bruise again. “Hypocrite.”


	10. And Then

Bruce was in a quandary. He had compiled a mental list of the pros and cons of his situation, but it wasn’t helping so much as it was confusing matters.

On the plus side: Jonathan “the Scarecrow” Crane was sitting in his bed, watching daytime talk-show television and muttering insulting things about pop psychology. He looked deliciously rumpled, freshly cut hair sweat-spiked, lips still blow-job puffy and, if Bruce played his cards right, he would likely be up for another round. 

On the minus side: Jonathan was criminally insane. 

And then the facts in general: Jonathan needed to go back to Arkham. Bruce couldn’t keep Jonathan like a pet; neither of them would be able to tolerate it for very long. He couldn’t let Jonathan go since he’d made no secret of the Scarecrow still being very much a part of him. And, simply, Bruce didn’t want to turn Jonathan over to the idiots in the insane asylum.

He had the feeling that if he left the decision unmade for much longer, Jonathan was going to make it for him.

Jonathan put the television on mute, took a sip from the glass of water at his elbow and gave Bruce a long, weary look. “Either do your thinking elsewhere, or stop. It’s not only tiresome and dull, but you’re giving me a headache,” he said.

Bruce got out of bed and started hunting around for his clothing. Four days of mostly fucking and he’d lost track of where things like his pants were. “I need to go out for a bit,” he said.

Jonathan turned the television off entirely and caught the undershirt that Bruce tossed his way. “Back in the box?” he asked wryly. For one, awfully tempting, moment Bruce wanted to tell him that he was welcome to stay in the trailer so long as he behaved himself, but he didn’t think Jonathan would, or even could behave himself.

“Sorry,” Bruce said, and he almost meant it.

He locked Jonathan and a book in the safebox in the Batcave and went to see Rachel. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. She was one of the only people who knew about his being Batman other than Alfred and Fox and both of them had made their opinions on the matter transparently clear. He didn’t think she would be much more sympathetic to his plight, and he wasn’t even certain he would tell her what was happening, but he needed to talk to someone other than Jonathan who had a way of putting a slant on everything.

Rachel was in her office, paper stacked a mile high on her desk and she smiled blandly at him without really looking at him before looking back again and smiling in earnest.

“Bruce,” she said, clicking her pen shut. “You look good.” She looked tired.

“I haven’t been out much,” he said. “Concussion makes fighting crime almost as hard as it does socializing.”

“I heard as much from Alfred,” Rachel said. “Apparently you gave the board quite a turn.”

Bruce sat down in the chair opposite her. It made him feel oddly like he was being interviewed. He picked up the perpetual motion figure sitting on her desk and started fiddling with it. “How’s the Arkham case going?”

Rachel heaved a sigh. “Which one?” She flicked a nail at the stacks of paper. “The ones from the patients’ families, the ones for the patients that haven’t been caught, the gas victims, the ones against Dr. Crane…I could go on.”

“Please don’t.” Bruce shrugged. “It’s still a mess then?”

“It’s not going to change overnight, Bruce.” Bruce dropped the base of the figure and had to stick his head under his chair to get it back. Rachel was smiling fondly at him when he resurfaced. “What’s this about?” she asked.

Bruce resisted the urge to squirm in his chair. “Just curious.” He put the figure back on her desk before he could break it. “So the upshot is that you wouldn’t send a dog there still.”

“It’s better than it was,” she said. “Who don’t you want to send?” Bruce looked up sharply and Rachel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m not an idiot,” Rachel said.

“It’s nothing,” Bruce said, picking at an imaginary loose thread on his thousand dollar suit. “It’s just been on my mind.”

*~*~*~*

Jonathan had taken the liberty of borrowing a knife from the kitchenette of the trailer and as soon as he heard the elevator clanking upwards and away, he started hacking into the nearest mattress. It wasn’t the easiest task ever, but he had spent almost a week with Bruce and it was time to go. Both before the novelty wore off and before Bruce had to be the Bat and do his civic duty to Gotham by turning the Scarecrow in.

Jonathan surveyed his handiwork: several holes in the mattress starting about knee-height and going up as far as he could reach, all large enough to poke his feet into. Luckily he was not a heavy man, though he doubted that the descent would be half as easy. He tucked the knife into the waistband of his sweatpants, took a deep breath and put his right foot into one of the holes, grasping the edge of one of the others. He scrambled up, the cloth tearing under him as he shifted foot and handholds as fast as he could until he was perched awkwardly on top of the safebox, balancing precariously on the mattress and the metal. Carefully, Jonathan turned himself around and lowered himself down until he was hanging by his arms. The drop wasn’t so bad then even if he was landing barefoot on uneven stone.

He was free. Sane as he was going to get, and free.

Jonathan smirked a little as he picked his way across the guano spattered ground towards the elevator. As smart as pretty, pretty Bruce Wayne could be, he didn’t always engage his brain.

Sure enough Bruce had left money in the trailer again and while his suits were mostly too big for Jonathan to bother stealing, he managed to find something that while a little large, wasn’t sweatpants. Taking the caravan would be far too risky, so Jonathan simply pocketed the four hundred dollars in cash that Bruce had and borrowed the keys to one of his many cars. He would have to abandon it the minute he reached Gotham, but it wouldn’t be too much of a hardship. He could survive.

His best bet would be to get out of Gotham, but Jonathan had found that he was still angry. Not that he wanted to fight the Bat-man again, but he wanted his revenge on the city and he wanted, for once, not to be thwarted. It wasn’t smart, and he knew that. But he was more than a little insane, and Jonathan figured it was alright to indulge that a little. Bruce did and he was none the worse for it.

Jonathan turned the car downtown, towards the areas of town that were still riddled with crime and crime bosses. It might take some time to claw his way back to the top, but Jonathan was nothing if not a survivor and resourceful to boot.

*~*~*~*

“I can get you out of the city,” Bruce said, shutting the elevator door behind him. “I can’t promise you total freedom, but I can –”

Bruce stopped. The safebox was empty. The Batcave was empty.

Jonathan was gone.

“Sir?” Alfred said, appearing, as always, as though from nowhere. “Sir, the signal is in the sky, I think Gordon is calling the Batman.”

“He’s gone,” Bruce said stupidly. “He left again.”

Alfred sighed. “I’ll dismantle the box shall I sir?” When Bruce looked at him sharply, Alfred didn’t move but it looked as though he might have raised an eyebrow had he not been a butler. “Master Wayne , I doubt the Scarecrow will come back, and if you do catch him, no doubt it will be in the middle of a crime, so…”

Bruce didn’t think he had ever heard Alfred trail off before. “All right,” he said, tiredly. “All right.”

*~*~*~*

Batman stood atop one of the many spires of Gotham city and looked down on the dirty, twisted mess of streets and over at the spires and edges of the skyline. He would find the Scarecrow, eventually, somewhere out there. And then, he thought, and then they would have to see.


End file.
